Lead and Follow
by cappie
Summary: The War in full swing, Harry draws upon his knowledge of ballroom dancing to save him from boredom. When Draco steps in to teach, the two must learn when to lead and when to follow. Complete.
1. chapter 1

_Lead and Follow_

_01_

It hadn't started out as something Harry wanted to do. In fact, he had been decidedly against the whole idea to begin with. Of all things the doctor could have recommend—of all the sports that Dudley could have participated in—it _had _to be, most possibly, one of the feminine sports that a man could partake in.

This was, of course, ballroom dancing.

_Nothing_ said pouf more than slicking back one's hair, putting Vaseline on your teeth, wearing eye shadow, and prancing around a floor with glittery women than that.

Nevertheless, Dudley had been instructed to take a ballroom dancing class three times a week to help loose some weight (the Dursley's were getting desperate now for _anything_ to work because the grapefruit-diet-from-hell still hadn't done anything to the blubbery thing that masqueraded as a human being) _and_ this meant that Harry was oh-so-lucky as to tag along. He was reminded daily that he should be "grateful" for the expensive lessons.

Vernon had been against the whole idea to begin with, "My boy? Prancing about there like some sort of fag?!"

Petunia tried to smooth everything out, reminding her hormone-driven son that he would get to meet lots of girls—and this had been all the horny bastard had needed to show up for the first class. It would turn out that, after that initial class, when the blubbery beast realized he would be forced to sweat by actually doing 'work,' he would spend the allotted time down in the park smoking with his friends.

Harry, however, had been forced to go to the class religiously by Dudley who threatened to accuse Harry of practicing magic illegally in his room at night if he decided to skip class as well. After all, Harry had to tell Vernon and Petunia what '_they_' were '_learning_' every week.

The conversations usually went somewhere along the lines of, "How did dancing go today, my little Dudder-kins?"

Dudley, who was probably watching the tele (or eating) during the conversation, would reply, "We learned this new move. Yeah…what was it called…?"

That was Harry's cue.

"The rock step and a single twinkle."

Dudley would usually comment something along the lines of, "It's _really _interesting. The teacher said I was doing it really good for a beginner…"

Petunia, like the dolt she was, would buy it and praise, "That's my little Dudders! So quick on the uptake."

By this point in the conversation, Harry would usually have gone off to his room to do his homework, or else continued with his chores—hoping that Petunia wouldn't ask either of them to demonstrate.

Dancing was definitely private. Even Ron and Hermione didn't know—and they weren't going to find out anytime soon.

The funny thing was that as the class persisted and Dudley continued to gain more weight (which he called muscle), Harry found himself becoming more intrigued by the dancing. It was difficult, to be sure, but it was something that he realized he could conquer with some ease. Harry had always been awkward, except when it came to Quidditch, and the dancing gave him an added balance and fine-tuned his senses. It also, surprisingly, made him stronger, especially in his arms, having to have them lifted at all time during the dances (except when they did swing).

The teacher was impressed with his discipline and suggested he go to the Monday evening classes to get more training with some of the advanced female dancers and the assistants who could show him new moves. Dudley had no problem with this: Monday night madness became a weekly ritual for him and a way to get out of the house after dark.

It was awkward at first, all of the dancing. Especially some of the Latin dances when the girls were plastered against him and their legs rubbing against his body. Except for the embarrassing incident with Cho two years ago, which he preferred to have decidedly out of his mind whenever possible, he really hadn't been in much contact with girls.

Dudley, the first and only lesson he had attended, was disciplined when his hand fell a little to low on the female figure and he began to grope the girls' ass.

"What good is dancing if you can't even feel them up a bit?" the oaf had complained on the way home.

Harry chose not to answer that comment—because was surprisingly weird how the female body didn't ignite his senses. At first he had thought he was aroused to feel the girl's breasts pressed against him, but them, after a while, he just decided it was nervousness and feeling their bodies pressed against his own eventually became second nature, something he didn't think or care all that much about.

If there was anything that Harry enjoyed most about dancing, it was the power of being in control and forcing his will upon his dancing partner. Compared to the majority of the novice men, who were still embarrassed to touch the girls most of the time, let alone get the steps right, Harry was leaps and bounds beyond. He was in good favour with all of the girls in the classes he took, for being willing and able to competently take the lead in dances and work determinedly to get the steps right.

Harry considered himself a decent dancer. Maybe even good.

But all Harry's ideas of grandeur would come crashing down when he returned to Hogwarts that summer.

Dancing was something that Harry hadn't really intended to continue—it was just something to keep him busy and out of the house as much as possible during the summer. It was fun and challenging, but there were better things in his eyes—mainly Quidditch. It came as one of the biggest blows when his final year at school turned out to be absent from the game he had come to know and love for the past six years.

The reasons were justified of course; Voldemort was still on the loose and might attack at anytime. A prime target would be the staff members and the students of Hogwarts, logically. This news had come in his customary letter from Hogwarts and in the end Harry surprised himself by going out and purchasing a few books about ballroom dancing with some of the money had saved by doing some odd jobs around the neighborhood that the Dursley's didn't know about.

It wasn't until recently that he had remembered about those books, buried at the bottom of his chest (under an overdue Muggle library book), when he had gone on a trip to Hogsmeade a few weekends ago and been surprised to find books on ballroom dancing in a bookstore that Hermione had insisted they go into. It hadn't occurred to Harry that wizards and witches actually danced – he hadn't really given it much thought – but musing on it, it seemed rather reasonable. Considering, he remembered, the Yule Ball fourth year where several students – mostly pureboods – danced almost like professionals. But what had pleased him the most in these books were the moving pictures that demonstrated each step to new moves he hadn't heard of.

It wasn't enough just to look at the picture though. He felt as though he _had _to dance. Without Quidditch he felt confined and coiled within his body. And, he supposed, he might as well keep himself busy with something physical rather than grow lethargic. The fact remained that it was embarrassing to practice dancing in the common room—no doubt everyone would laugh at him or something along that level. Therefore he was forced to make a room of requirement that he fled into late in the night to practice a few times a week.

Despite the books, even though he was still practicing a few times a week in the Room of Requirement, it felt extremely off not having a partner. He was never entirely sure if he was doing the steps right and he felt a little lost not guiding his partner.

Nevertheless, he persevered, wondering if he could somehow manage to find a girl to practice with him.

Draco Malfoy had been born into the world of dancing, although he would be the last one to admit it. Being part of the elite and refined upper crust of society rarely had its drawbacks, but this was one of them. The fact was that dancing was _what _you did at parties – Death Eater and normal upper-class soirees alike – before and after the meal and to save oneself from boredom about talking about the same old things over and over again.

Many memories of his childhood seemed to be compiled of snatches of colors, movements of cloaks and dresses; waltzes and tangos in the background. Even though these parties hadn't really happened in the past few years, Draco had been professionally trained in all dances—and trained by a Muggle no less.

His father always demanded the best of him, and if the best teacher in the world was a Muggle, than so be it.

Dancing, of course, was a secret to anyone who didn't attend the Death Eater galas and the events; and what took place at these parties was _never _discussed at school for obvious reasons.So, it went without saying that for the past six years Draco Malfoy had successfully avoided dancing at the school let alone ever bringing up the subject.

Upon returning to Hogwarts this autumn Draco had believed that his ability to dance would remain quietly protected along with other remnants of his past that, now, would only prove dangerous to him. He knew that he was treading on thin ice as it was by even returning to Hogwarts for his final year of learning, but there was no other choice considering he was essentially homeless with the onslaught of the war three months earlier and his defiance of his father and the Dark Lord. In addition, Draco had pointed out rather obtusely to himself, the past six years would have been a waste if he didn't get his certificate.

But dancing was of no matter as it was anyhow. How had he started thinking about this? The blondblinked and his eyesight came back into focus. He stared at a large grandfather clock in the recesses of the Astronomy Tower that played a tinkle to a Viennese waltz before chiming the hours.

_Well, its all clear here, _Draco thought, casting another wary look towards the clock. He scowled and turned on his heals so he could finally get to bed. Being Head Boy of Slytherin house had its advantages to be sure, but staying up late was not one that Draco particularly enjoyed.

Suppressing a yawn, Draco walked his way down the dark hallways bathed in the weak light of an October moon. As he continued down the icy steps to the floors below, he wondered absently if he could add a few centimeters to his Transfiguration essay tonight or if that was best left to tomorrow afternoon before class.

His thoughts, although cloudy and heavily burdened with sleep, were intruded upon by a scrape of metal against rock, a few random steps, and then the hiss of a voice.

Draco's senses were heightened in an instant and he clutched his wand apprehensively as he studied the hallway from whence the noise had come.

It wasn't a particularly frightening or unused hallway, Draco supposed, his grey eyes now black in the weak light flitting from door to door.

_It's just the third floor where the first years have…_

His thoughts fell silent as his eyes rested upon an odd-looking door handle that captured the weak light of the moon in its glass-door knob. Despite the oddity of most things at Hogwarts, glass doorknobs were usually only located in the dorm rooms or in the teachers private offices, and not used for classrooms.

Come to think of it Draco had never seen this door before. It _was _oddly placed, between a large mural and a door to the old Charms classroom, hiding in the shadows. He had been down this hallway hundreds of times in his life; the door had never been there until now. He felt his body tense more and he pointed his wand more firmly in front of him at the slightly ajar door, spilling a thin line of pale light into the corridor. He would not have admitted to himself that he was scared, but the school was in a veritable lockdown and the appearance of this strange door was alarming at best.

Stepping towards the door, he peered through the gap that was emitting the light. The sound came again, the frantic steps, the hush of a voice.

_What the…? _Draco thought for a moment, staring into the newfound room.

The room itself was long and narrow and even in the weak glow the heavily polished floorboards glimmered with silver moonlight. Polished windows faced out over the lake, and cut and pasted against this backdrop was a figure moving hesitantly about the room in an elegant stride.

Having grown accustomed to the light Draco narrowed his eyes to an old desk that was closest to the door, pilled high with books filled with moving pictures: pictures of people who were dancing. Or at least, Draco supposed, they were from what he could see.

The person moved about the floor in a whisper of movements and, watching the performance half in awe and half in jest, Draco squinted his eyes through the gap and peered closer. The person was trying to dance the tango, or so it appeared, and one of the more complicated steps for the lead. Well, they were _never_ going to get it right if they put their foot like—

The figure stumbled slightly and swore again, grumbling angrily, "What am I doing wrong?"

Footsteps came straight towards Draco and the blond tensed in the shadows of the hallway, but the stranger paused and hunched over the desk. The form picked up a fat book and scanned a few pages through it. "I'm doing everything right…"

It was then that Draco realized that it was Harry Potter dancing in the room.

At first he was incredulous and moved his face closer, titling it slightly so he could distinguish the features in the weak light, trying to convince himself he was dreaming. Yet there Potter was, with his longish nose, green eyes, thick lips, and of course that damn scar.

Harry, tossing the book idly down on the desk, mumbled, "Oh, bullocks." He strode towards the center of the floor again, corrected his posture, and began, or began what looked like, a waltz. As Draco continued to watch his rival more he was silently counting in time to the steps. One two three, four five six. The graceful ebb and flow of the waltz was apparent in the Gryffindor's steps, which, Draco had to admit, weren't bad at all. He had definitely seen worse plenty of times.

His expression soured slightly as he remembered Goyle tripping over Pansy and falling into the punch bowl at a Christmas party some years back, and dousing Draco in the stuff in the process.

Harry stopped abruptly and cursed again, then started the waltz over.

The situation was unnerving, and a few moments later Draco withdrew from the shadows and continued his way down the hall towards his common room, hoping that he would get a decent nights sleep for the first time in a while.

As it would turn out, his dreams would be filled with memories from his not-so-distant past. The whisper of silk, the shuffle of feet, and the heavy breathing that accompanies the quickstep.

It had been a few days since Draco had seen Potter making a royal fool of himself in that room that had mysteriously sprouted up in the hall like the legs of some creature he would find in his Care of Magical creatures class. Draco didn't deny that he had thought about what he had witnessed that night—after all, it was _Potter _and he was _dancing. _And not just any kind of dancing: the waltz, at that, and he had done it rather admirably (though clumsily) without a partner.

Still, every time Draco saw the damnable Boy-Who-Lived he couldn't help but surprise a smirk as he remembered the boy washed in the pale moonlight and tripping over himself like a toddler. It was too brilliant.

Nevertheless, Draco didn't spread the information about. He wasn't as low as some of his fellow Slytherins, who insisted on slandering anyone who had an interest in something "out of the ordinary." It was for that reason that the blond boy kept his pastime of whittling under close wraps. Even his father hadn't known where random mahogany-carved snakes that kept appearing around the manor on bookshelves had come from.

Yet Harry Potter was the _last _person that Draco would have thought to have taken up ballroom dancing. The only grace the boy possessed was out on the Quidditch pitch—or so he had previously believed. Even though Draco loathed the boy, he did have to admit that the bloke had talent for dancing. It seemed to add to his balance, even if he was constantly falling over himself.

Still, if Potter was instructed or had a partner he might not be so bad. _Might _being the key word.

But now was not the time to be thinking about Potter and _his _issues. Draco had plenty of problems to handle on his own—namely the war that he was caught up in against his will and the fear it brought. When he had renounced the Dark Mark and sided with the Order, he only had a simplified view of what would of happened with him—namely that, although he wouldn't be initially accepted into the Light side's trust, he would at least be spared from some of the stress of war issues as long as possible. In the deal he made, he would be protected by Dumbledore and the safety of Hogwarts, from the Dark Lord and his father in return for weekly drillings from Dumbledore about information and places that the Death Eaters might use as a base or any modes of attack, and any other things Draco might know.

So, if he wasn't patrolling the halls most nights as Head Boy, he would be lounging about in the old coot's office consuming entirely too much tea – which he sometimes wondered might be spiked with something – and scones, and racking his brain for any detail whatsoever.

At the moment he had just returned from one of these meetings and was making his way down to the dungeons so he could collapse on his bed before awaking annoyingly early for his eight o'clock classes.

In a way, not having Quidditch this year was a good thing, namely because he didn't have time for it. Still, Quidditch provided him a release, and he felt confined and out of shape most days by not doing any physical activity.

Walking into the familiar corridor that he used as a shortcut, there they were again: the footsteps moving in a gentle pattern across a polished floor, accompanied by a litany of curses.

_Why the hell didn't I take a different way to get to the dungeons? _Draco seethed to himself, walking towards the door unconsciously. The damn footsteps and the promise of Potter making a fool of himself were hypnotic.

The same scene presented himself: Potter, a polished floor, and moonlight. It was actually relaxing watching him twirl along the floor—he wasn't bad when it came to the Viennese waltz. Ah, good, he had figured out to exert less energy with the steps…well, at least he wasn't totally hopeless.

Potter's feet moved into a spiral, but judging by the gleam of the floor and the shoes the prat was wearing it caused the boy loose his balance and slip, catching himself just before he hit the wood below.

Draco couldn't stand it any longer.

Opening the door with a loud creak, absently wondering why it was never shut all the way (Peeves may have been dense, but he wasn't _that _dense), Draco called out, "Really, Potter, you just butcher it every time, don't you?"

Potter spun around, his green eyes glinting in the dim light and he snapped, trying to sound angry but obviously more so embarrassed, "Who's there?"

Draco stepped into the light without much gusto.

"Malfoy!" he spat in disgust and anger, "What the hell do you think you are doing here?"

Draco chuckled and smirked. "Watching you make a fool of yourself. And you do it with such grace."

Harry pulled himself up and dusted off his pants half-heartedly. Grumbling more to himself than to his arch-nemesis, he said, "As if you could do any better . . ."

Unfortunately, or fortunately, the acoustics in the building were superb and the comment did not go as hidden as it was intended.

"_Excuse_ me?" Draco sneered, striding across the room. Harry's eyes flashed angrily and Draco grinned darkly. "What are you talking about, Potter? I'm a Malfoy. That means I do this sort of thing all the time. I know what I am doing, unlike you. I am certainly not the one who can't even get a simple Tango step down."

"How long have you been watching?" Harry asked suspiciously, his lip curling as he walked over to his pile of books on a desk and snapped them shut, face stained an embarrassed and furious red.

"Long enough to know that you are terrible." Draco paused, watching Potter glare icily and waiting for him to rise to the bait. He smirked when Harry did not respond. "But you have potential."

Harry stared. Or goggled. Or both.

"That means so much coming from _you_," Harry snarled, recovering quickly. He gathered his books in his arms and extinguished the candle on the desk as though he was about to storm out of the room—that was, as soon as Malfoy was done blocking the entrance.

"Yes, it does, actually."

Harry snorted, and waited impatiently.

"I've grown up dancing."

"So?" Harry scoffed, wishing he had never decided to take up dancing again—what _had_ he been thinking!?

"_So, _I know that you have potential—and it will go to waste if you are teaching yourself the moves—as you just demonstrated a number of times tonight." Draco smirked half-heartedly as he realized where he was directing the conversation—a place he definitely hadn't intended upon. His only intentions were to come into the room, poke fun at the prat, destroy his self-esteem and then…and then what?

Oh gods. Why had he done this? Why hadn't he just ignored Potter like he should have learned how to do after going to school with him for the past six years?

Nevertheless, he opened his mouth, and continued, though neither as firmly nor as with as confidence as he would have liked, "That's why I'll be your teacher."

This time Harry could not control his astonishment. His mouth dropped open and he nearly dropped his books. _What the hell?!._ He took a deep breath, tired of Malfoy's games.

"I don't need _your _help, Malfoy," Harry growled. He pushed his way towards the door that was gleaming mockingly behind the Slytherin's figure.

"Oh, get over yourself Potter," Malfoy sneered, pushing him away from the door with such force that it caused Harry to stumble back against the slick floor. "Do you want to get better or not? I can easily walk away and let you teach yourself how to do it wrong if that's what you want to do. It won't be bearing down on my conscious anyways. I don't really care one way or another."

"Then why are you bothering to offer your help?" Harry demanded, his temper flaring now in the shadows of the room.

God, why did the idiot keep coming back to the same question?

"Because. You. Have. Potential. Do I need to write it on a chalk board or tattoo it on my arm?" Draco demanded, crossing his arms and letting out a long exasperated sigh.

"Actually, that would be nice." Harry chuckled wryly, surprising himself, though no less at ease around the Slytherin who he had hated with a passion for the past six years. Even though "supposedly" Draco had switched sides and was now with the Order, it didn't make much of a difference to Harry at all.

Once a Malfoy, always a Malfoy.

"So, what's your answer?" Malfoy drawled in a bored tone. "Because I don't mind going to bed at all while you toil away up here night after night tripping over your feet like an idiot."

_What is the arse trying to prove? _Harry thought to himself, angry that he was letting himself be teased by Malfoy. _That he is better at dancing than me? I already know that. I mean, come on he is a pureblood Malfoy . . .that by definition means ballrooms and cocktail parties and stuffy, boring people with lots of money . . ._

Harry sighed. He wanted to learn, to get better – it kept him busy in lieu of Quidditch being cancelled. He knew he needed a teacher, and a partner. Malfoy as his partner was embarrassing. If anything the two would get in a fight after one dance, curse each other, and never talk about ballroom dancing again.

Yes. Now that he thought about it there was no way that he and Malfoy could work together for such a long period of time and actually get along.

No way at all. Let Malfoy try to teach him one time and see what happens; then the Slytherin would leave him alone.

"Fine," Harry spat.

"Good, I'm the lead. You'll have to learn to follow before you can lead," Draco replied breezily, shrugging off his cloak and stepping out into the polished floor with a smirk still plaguing his features. And then, just to add the icing on the cake, he grinned slyly and said, "That means you're the girl."


	2. chapter 2

The past two days had been a living hell for Harry. Ever since the Slytherin had suggested the dance lessons, Harry had been on edge. Whenever he saw Malfoy in the halls, at meals, or in class, he was reminded of the night the Slytherin had caught him—dancing, by himself, like a bloody fool. He felt exposed and humiliated: he tried hard to keep his personal life essentially that – personal, concealed and as hidden as possible from the rest of the world. In some situations, like this, he even kept secrets from his best friends, namely Ron and Hermione. But now the worst person in the world had found out that he _danced_. But not only did he dance—he _ballroom _danced. _Was_ there nothing private, least of all in his world? It made him feel vulnerable that Malfoy knew his secret; the Slytherin could use it against him as blackmail, at the very least. The level of his annoyance, hatred, and slight fear was on par with that towards Umbridge the year before.

But he didn't like to think of that great pig, whenever possible. Those detentions had still left slight scars, which one day; he would have to get removed. Maybe next time he was in London.

Dinner in the Great Hall the night of his supposed "first lesson" with Malfoy was the worst. The Slytherin table seemed especially rowdy and Malfoy was laughing loudly. Harry _hated _it when Malfoy laughed, especially when he didn't know about what. It certainly seemed that the prat was chuckling, smirking, and grinning a lot more than he ever had in the past. Was Malfoy talking about him? Was he telling his fellow Slytherins about what an idiot _that Potter _was? Or was Malfoy just feasting in the mockery of knowing that Harry _wanted _to learn how to dance better?

The Slytherin table suddenly erupted in a burst of laughter, all the students caught up in some private joke they were unwilling to share with everyone else. Harry, sinking his head down and glaring stoically at his lumpy pudding, tried not to blush. Still, he _had _to look, to see if he could understand what the hell those damnable Slytherin's were guffawing about. He glanced up then quickly turned his eyes back to the steaming bowl.

Malfoy had been looking at him.

"Are you all right, mate?" Ron chuckled, poking his friend in the shoulder and giving him a confused look. "Is something swimming in there?"

Biting his tongue, Harry just adjusted his shoulders and straightened his posture, decidedly not looking at Malfoy who was _still _watching him"Oh, er, nothing; I thought I saw a hair in it."

Ron grimaced. "Eugh! Blasted house-elves!"

"Ron!" Hermione reprimanded absently, glancing up from her book.

Harry just ignored the two of them, both dreading and anticipating the night's lesson with Malfoy. He wondered if it was all a perverse joke – if Malfoy planned to humiliate him later that night when Harry was waiting for him in the Room of Requirement ….

Why did Potter always have to bloody well stare at him? Well, besides the obvious reason, of course. He was, after all, the most good-looking man in the entire school, although The-Boy-Who-Lived was a close second to him—not like _he _was noticing or anything.

But still, the boy kept _staring _at him! And it wasn't a simple "how-are-you-today-I'm-fine" look – Potter was probably the last person from whom he could expect one, besides Granger. It was a "what-are-you-plotting-you-fiend" expression, the kind he expected from the Weasel, and presently Draco was completely innocent. Presently, that was.

The only reason that he could conceive of why the prat was staring at him so much (and very indiscreetly at that) was that Potter must have been in awe of his new dance instructor. After all, who wouldn't be? He was probably the best dancer in a 100 kilometer radius. If Draco so desired, he could be professional and compete; he just wasn't that dedicated, especially when it came to ballroom dancing. Especially.

Those green eyes were trained on him again.

Potter was bloody annoying.

The boy couldn't dance, get spells right, or even make potions correctly for that matter—and now he had a staring problem.

Catching his eye, Draco smirked and was amused to see the boy redden and turn to chat with his friends, Weasel and the Mudblood.

It was all very tiresome.

Heaving a silent sigh, Draco turned to Crabbe and Goyle and began to account to them the story about one of the stupid house-elves and its mishap with a frying pan over summer holiday. A few seconds later the entire Slytherin table erupted into laughter and Draco was amused once more as he felt those green eyes staring at him from across the room.

It was both off-putting and enjoyable at the same time. He was satisfied that he had Potter on his toes, both literally and figuratively – he could just imagine what was going on in his rival's head across the Great Hall.

Draco was unaware of a pleasant glow on his features—very rare for a Malfoy—that appeared on his cheeks for the remainder of the meal.

It was past midnight, and the damp and coldness of an October night permeated the castle grounds. Outside, the moon was innocently shining down upon the landscape and into a room where a solitary figure was staring up into the water-colored depths. Harry absently glanced over his shoulder, both nervous and apprehensive at the same time. Was Malfoy actually going to show? Harry tried to slough it off. Why did he care? He was a perfectly fine dancer in his own way and he certainly didn't want to be learning how to follow, especially from _him. _

In addition, Harry insisted, glaring down at his nails and the dirt that somehow _always _managed to get caught beneath them, if he _really _wanted to, he could just learn some more over the summer, or find someone else at school (who wasn't a total arse) to help him.

But Malfoy was late, and Harry felt even more foolish for believing the lying, cheating, conniving Slytherin at his word. It was like something out of first year, when he had gone for the midnight duel, only to be left in the cold, hiding and listening to Malfoy's mocking voice insisting that "Potter was somewhere around here."

Well, Harry supposed offhandedly, brushing off his trousers, he had gotten the upper hand with Malfoy in that one, now hadn't he?

There was no point waiting for the bloke. If Malfoy wasn't going to come he didn't give one knut over it and he certainly wasn't going to wait all night in hopes the bloke would show. So, rubbing his neck absently, Harry decided to start with the waltz for the night. He adjusted his position, made the proper frame, and took that first important step. The first step was always the most significant in any dance; it demonstrated the nature of the dance itself and the strength of the leader.

Eventually, he worked his way into a corkscrew and adapted his posture for the underhand turn for the woman—the woman he would have supposedly been had Malfoy had his way. Maybe it was a good thing that Malfoy _still _hadn't shown up—he didn't want to give up being the lead any time soon.

_But it's not like I care, _Harry kept on having to remind himself as he came out of a box turn, fumbling slightly on the move, tripping over his own feet. It _was _just Malfoy. He could handle him whether he showed or not. He had been handling Malfoy and his annoying ways for several years now, hadn't he? Didn't that count for anything?

Moving to practice the box turn again, he frowned.

Harry allowed himself to admit, very _very _quietly, he _was _rather disappointed that Malfoy hadn't shown. Even if Harry did have to dance the part of the girl, it would have been nice to have a dance instructor, and even a partner. It was rather foolish dancing about the room by oneself….

Harry slowed, stopped, and hung his head. He had believed Malfoy. What a fool he had been. After all the crap that Malfoy had pulled on him last year—what with Umbridge and the lot, he shouldn't have been so eager to put his faith in the student whose father was somewhere out on the loose with Voldemort. When had believing anyone ever worked out for him? Even Dumbledore, somewhere along the line, had let him down.

Outside an owl hooted in the night and Harry imagined the giant squid absently splashing around in the lake underneath the silvery moon. If it wasn't so damned cold, he would venture out, but as it was—

There was a flutter of fabric and the sound of movement. Harry, only slightly alarmed, absently glanced over his shoulder and tried to hide his surprise. It was Malfoy. He had actually come.

Harry didn't know whether to be annoyed or mildly happy.

"You're late." he greeted Malfoy with a frown, running his hand absently through his longish hair.

He didn't like this idea at all. Why had he actually been looking forward to this? Why had he even been disappointed when he had thought Malfoy wasn't going to show? Dinner and the suspicious laughter from Malfoy's side of the Slytherin table did not bode well. Harry was so nervous at the moment he didn't know how he was going to be able to handle talking coherently, let alone dancing on form.

"So?" was the only response the Gryffindor was granted from the blond figure that had abruptly appeared in the darkened room.

"So? You're late."

Draco sneered without much malice and suppressed a yawn as he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows. "I wasn't aware there was a certain time I had to be here."

"Well, there is." Harry scowled, crossing his arms and wondering how Malfoy _always _managed to act the pompous arse perfectly….

Draco, on the other hand, only responded by tossing a bag down onto the ground and taking off his grey vest. He placed it onto the old desk where the dancing books had been previously. Striding across the room and flexing his shoulders to loosen his muscles, he absently gave Potter a once-over in mild appreciation, though Harry didn't seem to notice much.

Harry motioned to the bag and demanded, "What's that?"

"Go over there and see for yourself, Potter," Draco replied, smirking absently and scratching the back of his neck, not really giving much mind to his fuming rival who was standing in the shadows.

The green-eyed man just wished the bastard would tell him what the hell was in the bag, but he could tell Malfoy was enjoying himself immensely at his expense—like he always did.

"I got you shoes. Better than those…whatever they're called—Muggle monstrosities." Draco's back was to him now as he leaned against the same window-pane that Harry had been standing by previously. He, too, looked out onto the great lake under the moonlight.

Harry was somewhat surprised, although nevertheless, untrusting. His eyes narrowed," You got me shoes? How did you know my size?"

"You really are an idiot. You can get one size-fits-most when it comes to shoes, except I don't think they would fit your ogre friend Hagrid."

Harry didn't bother to argue. He was too tired, and too nervous now to bother with Malfoy. They hadn't even started dancing yet—Harry had to learn how to choose his battles from now on. Of course, this was presuming they managed to survive the first lesson together—something that seemed highly unlikely at this moment in time.

"They don't have any tread so you can spin easily." Draco continued blandly as he stated the fact, turning from the window as he watched Harry take off his shoes and hunch over to put his new ones on. Draco's eyes narrowed appreciatively, but said nothing.

"Am I going to be doing a lot of spinning?"

"Well, you are the girl."

Now finished with the laces, Harry stood up and brushed off his pants as he glared at his rival from across the room, neither appreciative of the shoes nor the last comment.

"Shut up, Malfoy."

Draco knew very well that he shouldn't bother to try anything with Potter at this moment in time. The two hadn't even started dancing yet—and as silly and utterly Hufflepuffian as it sounded, he had been looking forward to tonight. _Not _because he was dancing with Potter, although that would certainly prove interesting to say the least, but just being able to dance with someone—anyone, even a beginner, again. It wasn't until he had seen the prat practicing a few nights ago that Draco had realized how much he had enjoyed dancing in his past. But, Draco couldn't let the last comment slide. Potter just _asked _for the insult. When would the idiot ever learn? "What's got your knickers in a twist then, eh Potter?"

"I don't want to be the girl. I'm supposed to learn how to lead," His rival answered, rather steamed.

"Says who? Your Muggle teachers who probably learned at some second rate school somewhere?" Draco walked forward as he uttered the last words, enjoying the angry flush as it appeared on his rival's cheeks. He watched in amusement as Potter crossed his arms in anger and frowned. Now that he thought about it, Potter did have the dancer's body. Long, lanky, broad shoulders, and coiled strength. Maybe Seeker and Dancer went hand and hand.

"It doesn't matter; I don't want to follow."

"Oh, how does that not surprise me? You always have to lead and be number one. But not this time, Potter. I'm the lead so just get used to it."

"Why should I? You don't have to be here."

"No, you're right, I don't. I have much better things I could be doing. Namely sleeping—,"

"Or practicing Dark Arts," Harry supplied mildly.

Sneering only half-sincerely, Draco replied coolly, "Careful Potter, those shoes might be hexed."

Harry snorted and didn't say anything else, but only glared at Draco with such an intensity that he was somewhat caught off guard. It certainly must be exhausting glaring—let alone hating a person so much. Still, there was no point in wondering about what rattled around in Mr. H.J. Potter's brain, now was there? They were here to dance and there was no point wasting the evening with mindless drabble. So, stepping out into the middle of the room, Draco presented his left hand and waited. When Potter didn't move from his spot, he sighed absently, and rolled his eyes. This was going to be a long evening indeed.

"Now, Potter, what have you learned for the waltz?"

Harry questioned off guard, blinking at the last comment, "What?"

"What steps have you learned?" Malfoy repeated rather tiredly, rubbing his eyes with a look of deep exhaustion as though he hadn't been sleeping well for the past few nights, or the last few months, for that matter.

"Oh, well…"

"You did learn the waltz, didn't you?"

"Of course I did!"

Harry's voice echoed through the room awkwardly, his cheeks flushed in what he presumed both embarrassment and anger—something that seemed to be happening around Malfoy a _lot _as of late. What he ought to do was just punch his lights out as revenge for last year; he never had gotten even for that. But that was for another time, another time when he wasn't wearing shoes that Malfoy bought.

Draco just sighed, extended his hand again, and in a more "gentle" voice, urged, "Never mind. Just get over here, and we'll see how you do dancing with me."

Harry blinked, and tried to convince Malfoy that he should play the part of the man—even if he doubted it was going to work. Still, he persisted. If that was one thing Malfoy had taught him throughout the years, it was 'be annoying until you get your way'. Merlin knew it had worked on Harry numerous times. "I didn't learn the part of the girl."

The last comment didn't seem to touch Malfoy and he replied just as coolly as before, "Well, you're about to. As a lead it's my job to make you look good, so we'll start off slow if dats-what-ickle-'arry wants."

"No, that's not want I want. I want to lead."

That's all he had ever wanted to do. Big surprise.

"It's a tough world, Potter; get used to it."

Malfoy's answer didn't shocker him one bit.

Harry regarded his rival's still-outstretched hand rather uneasily. Technically, Malfoy was adhering to the proper dance etiquette, but…somehow it didn't seem right. At all. Suddenly it seemed very flowery and feminine, and Harry had an urge to go watch wrestling or something, just to prove he wasn't a total pouf. But, shoving any such tempting thoughts firmly away in the back of his mind, he gulped and walked across the highlighted dance floor to where Draco stood waiting. Harry avoided Draco's eyes now. It was different under the circumstances—this wasn't Potions, The Great Hall, or Quidditch. It was the two of them in a dark, deserted classroom, dancing. They were dancing. This wasn't rivalry. This wasn't hatred. It was uncharted water and Harry could tell he was sinking already.

_Oh, blast it all, _he finally thought to himself, taking the last step, _We're__ just dance partners. Nothing more, nothing less—except he is a royal arse, but that's it. That is it. _

Harry straightened his posture, turned his head away from Draco, and placed his hand within his partner's and waited, nervous and cautious like a young panther in the jungle.

"Why are you so bloody nervous? We're just dancing, Potter," Draco mumbled to himself, quickly winding his own arm about the boy's waist and making slight adjustments to the way Harry was standing. As he bent his head back up, Draco's eyes casually slipped up the nape of Harry's neck as he noticed the fine jaw line and chin and then—

"_I'm not nervous."_

--Draco's eyes fell away and he applied a slight amount of resistance against their hands and began the initial step of waltz. The Slytherin knew that Potter would be able to keep up with him, even if he plunged into the steps without counting it out and explaining how it was done like a beginner. Most likely Potter would have taken it as a stab of his pride anyway. Surprisingly, over the years Draco had learned that the boy whom he was dancing with was equally, if not more than, as prideful as he. It was better to get the boy over his head than to humiliate him with the utter basics.

So, he started a turning box in time to silent music in his head, and their steps began to echo throughout the room. Still, it was too soon to be so quiet. Even Draco admitted it was weird. It was he and Potter, in a room, alone, dancing, and both of them obviously not as calm as they should have been about the whole affair: Besides the fact that they were both boys, nothing wrong was going on.

But Draco wasn't nervous, he told himself. Malfoys didn't get nervous, especially around Potters. At times like these, it was best to make conversation.

"What, do you think I'm going to spread this information around? That I meet you at odd hours of the night—to dance? No offense, Potter, but knowing the students at this school they would think we were doing another kind of dance."

Draco noticed absently that Harry grimaced at this comment, and it only caused a slight smirk to appear on Draco's features. This was going to be fun. If Potter didn't learn how to put up with him…oh, he was going to have so much fun torturing the bloke.

"As disgusting as the idea may be for you, Potter, many people on these grounds would kill for an opportunity like this."

"I'm sure."

"You ought to be." Out of the turning box, and into the cork-screw.

"Why are you doing this?"

"That is none of your concern. Now, follow me, if you can." Draco chuckled as he lifted his arm signaling for an under-arm turn—or so Harry thought. He would teach the cocky Gryffindor a thing or two about dancing. He watched in amusement as Harry stepped forward and came to a halt suddenly, glaring daggers at him through his ridiculous bottle-glasses of his. Merlin, when was the boy going to buy himself some new glasses? A pair of nice small, stylish frames would be better—he looked like an utter idiot in those things. But then of course, the face went hand in hand with the truth.

"I can't follow you. I don't know what to do," The Gryffindor seethed.

"You _never_ know what to do, Potter. But at least you admit it." Draco announced, dropping his hand, then stepping back and grasping both Harry's arms and holding them at the biceps. Sometimes starting out simpler was better.

_Hm__, Potter must work out…_

"Now, idiot, on the third count you come forward and turn to your right and walk six paces in the count to the music—,"

"—There is no music, Malfoy."

"Then count it in your head. Even a four-year-old Muggle could do that, I'm sure."

Harry began to throw those visual daggers at Draco again, but he complied, obviously against his will.

_Potter is getting better,_ Draco thought absently, lifting up his arm almost lazily and then continuing into a turning box where six paces later Harry appeared at his side and continued with the dance. Eventually, after a few moments practice like this, Draco slipped his arm back behind Harry's back and adjusted the posture so that the two were back in the formal position.

"I'm surprised and shocked you actually managed to do the steps."

Harry grumbled something along the lines of, "Sod off," although Draco pretended not to hear and led him into a corkscrew again which he managed to follow and pick up rather easily. It wasn't as though Potter didn't know the moves; he just knew them in the opposite manner from the follower. Even Draco admitted learning the opposite role was irksome and felt odd for quite a while before it came normal. Thankfully, having practiced it, Draco had the room to act the complete arse and have the ability to both lead and follow—although he preferred to follow. But then again, who didn't? Turns, swivels, and the lot were just more enjoyable moves and always beneficial to making dancing a pleasurable experience from his point of view. He would be the last one to tell Potter that.

"Ouch—," Draco hissed slightly.

"Sorry," Harry gulped, staring own at his feet. It was utterly terrible—he hadn't looked down at his feet in months. That was what beginners did! And now here he was—well, there was nothing he could do about it.

"Potter, what the bloody hell do you think you are doing?"

Harry looked up, a flush rising to his neck. "What do you mean?"

Draco stopped dancing and dropped his arms, his face cool, calm, and emotionless. "Are you seriously going to attempt to dance, or just fumble around the dance floor looking like someone with two left feet?"

"What are you talking about?" Harry rose to his defense, "I am trying! It's not my fault I was never taught how to follow!"

"Yes, but you _were_ taught not to look at your feet and the correct posture, and you can't even do that right!"

Harry seethed, "Well, there isn't anything I can do about it."

"Maybe if you stopped complaining and making excuses you would be able to get it right."

"I'm not making excuses." He insisted bitterly, clenching his fists unconsciously.

Draco did not reply for a long moment, his eyes just slits of grey in the darkness of the room. Finally, and at his leisure, he finished, "Yes, you are Potter. You're so used to it by now you don't even know you're doing it."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"That means have all the steps we did tonight memorized by tomorrow. I'm tired of this, and you, and I'm going to bed."

Harry watched as Malfoy calmly walked out of the darkened room in the grace of a dancer that Harry had realized he possessed for all those years. Until now, that was. And so, turning on his heel, Harry continued to practice, cursing Malfoy with every step.

Needless to say, the next night, Harry had perfected the waltz and all the moves he had been taught. Draco was the last one to admit he was pleased when he found that the next lesson went by _somewhat _smoothly, seeing as how they hardly talked, but quite literally, danced the night away.


	3. chapter 3

Harry certainly wasn't pleased in the direction things were headed. His first practice session with Malfoy had been utterly terrible—starting off at the _extreme _basics in the waltz. They hadn't even made it to another dance in the end because it seemed that at every new step or turn the damnable Slytherin took the opportunity to humiliate him—starting off with making Harry the follower, which was the female. At first this reality had truly stuck a cord within him and he had been quite angry at his new "dance partner"—but, in actuality, he did admit that the follower did have the better steps, and just not in waltz, for that matter. Truth be told the follower had the most fun.

Often times Harry hadn't a clue what the hell he was doing when he danced with Malfoy, but the ass lead him so perfectly that he flowed from one move to the next. If being in the same room with Malfoy wasn't enough to piss off Harry, it was the fact that the boy was always right.

That just made Harry all the more angry and resisting when the two danced. And this evening was no different from any of the others as Harry was soon learning, a scowl mixed with a half grimace appearing on his features as Harry stumbled on the opening moves for a tango. He had presumed that Draco would be leaning him into a turn and so he had mentally prepared for that, yet when the prat only continued the advancing movement he had missed his cue.

"Potter! We've gone over this ten times now! It goes quick-quick-slow-_pause-_forward-back-back-back-side-together!"

Harry's expression soured and he exclaimed, "Oh, well _excuse _me. It's not like you aren't asking me to do something I've never done before, or anything."

"That excuse would have worked the first time, but this is the tenth time." Draco pointed out, magiking a glass of water from the nearby desk and sipping it delicately, casting exasperated glances towards the only other figure in the room.

Harry fell silent and looked miffed at some point in the darkness. _Merlin, if only Quidditch hadn't been canceled again this year. _It was bad enough, what with the ministry the year before and everything—and Umbridge being the demon sent from hell to ensure that he did nothing whatsoever; but now the reasons why he wasn't out on the pitch actually made sense. He hadn't been called on a minor technicality of wanting to beat his dancing partner to a pulp, no, quite on the contrary, the fact that Voldemort had officially returned to power and was waging a silent war against the Wizarding population was such a good reason that Harry was annoyed for the fact that he could not be annoyed.

It was always safety first, but this time, he supposed, it was justified. Still, he was beginning to wonder if anything could rationalize him being here, dancing with the son of a Death Eater after hours.

There was a nervous and apprehensive silence, Harry lost in his thoughts just wishing he could ride his Firebolt for the first time in months, until finally Draco licked his lips, rolled his eyes, and grumbled, "Get over yourself Potter and get over here. We're trying it again."

The Gryffindor's steps echoed across the floor and he faced his enemy, or at the very least, rival. Well, dancing was better than doing nothing physical, the Gryffindor supposed dully, arranging his features into a blank expression, often like the type Dudley wore when watching the telly. It was best to be passive, especially with the tango, seeing as how it was a dance of extreme _closeness. _

_Good thing this isn't Arginitian Tango, _Draco thought silently to himself.

Observing Potter in mild annoyance, noticing that they were now of equal heights—although in previous years he had managed to out-rank the boy in stature, Draco crossed his arms and cast a disapproving glare towards his dance partner. He had an absolutely horrible expression on his face, as though he was a cave man or some such thing. Perhaps it was something typical of the Muggle household in which he had been raised.

"So," he clipped briskly, wondering if the boy had that same glassy-eyed appearance often, "First off, Potter, I don't know how you danced back home, but your not standing _close _enough to me. And this is the tango we're doing here, not some waltz with a sturdy frame."

Harry snorted, and replied swiftly, his face quickly contorting into an emotion of anger, "Well, has it ever occurred to you that I don't want to stand that close to you? Need I point out you _are _a guy?"

"Well, I'm glad that your sexuality is so well intact that you _aren't_ nervous pressing your body against mine. It doesn't matter _who _you dance with—not like you're my first choice either, but it's all about how you dance with them. Whether it's your Mudblood friend—,"

Harry bristled at this comment and Draco steered his remarks decidedly away from that topic. It was best not to use that word anymore for his own sake at least.

"—Or McGonagall, for that matter: they're all are the same," he finished swiftly.

The Gryffindor smirked and stepped closer, a slight grin appearing on his lips, "I'm not the same as the people you used to dance with."

Draco mirrored the same smuggish expression (which he pulled off quite better than the Gryffindor) in turn and grabbed Potter's hand in a flourish and finished, "You're right. They danced better than you."

If Harry had any wind within him, it was knocked out when Draco stepped forward with such force that their bodies were practically glued together as they glided across the dance floor. Yes, there was that all-important first step, wasn't it? The two had only had a few lessons together and already Harry had heard that speech more times than he would have cared to. It was always the same—the importance that lay in that first move. Harry snorted silently; not like he would know about leading anytime soon, not if Malfoy had his way.

The fact that he was plastered against the bastard was extremely disconcerting and oftentimes he felt his posture falling to shreds as he just, however silently, realized that he was dancing one of the most passionate dances _ever _with a person he ought to royally hate. And it was very, very hard to concentrate on the dance moves. Especially when his partner's legs were rubbing against his own.

They began the first five steps of the tango, Draco's voice tickling Harry's ear as he counted out the moves.

_One…Two…Three, Four, Five…_

They continued this pattern for sometime until, Draco, upon pulling him closer so that the right side of Harry's body was completely smashed against his chest, commanded, not sharply, but rather firmly, "Bend you're knees more, Potter. There are no straight knees in this dance. Like I've told you, this isn't the bloody waltz, you know."

A pause and Harry frowned, but complied.

"Lower…"

The frown deepened.

"Lower…"

It turned into a grimace, but nevertheless Harry complied _again._

"I said lower, Potter." Draco demanded as he made a sharp spin when they had traveled the length of the floor.

"I can't _go _any lower or else I can't stand up." The heated Gryffindor spat bitterly, tightening his grip against the Slytherin and turned his head leftwards as he felt them enter into another spin. In this position he felt very vulnerable and it seemed almost impossible to keep his balance without nearly strangling his partner.

"Yes, you can. You're dancing now, aren't you? Now, just don't straighten up and continue dancing like this." Draco demanded, leaning backwards into a Mezzio Corte.

_Quick-Quick-Slow-Slow-Quick-Quick-Slow…_

"You are annoying as hell, Malfoy." Harry retorted as they spun out of the step and continued to glide across the room. Idly in the dim recesses of his brain that weren't processing messages like _Draco is an arse—His legs are pressing against you—He has very nice abs-_came the thought _Wait, we actually did this right. I didn't mess up…_

Malfoy didn't reply, but only held him impossibly closer, his grip strong and firm, yet not overpowering. Harry could tell that Malfoy was getting into the dancing, especially when he didn't even bother acknowledge an insult from Harry, his enemy. Well, Harry supposed off-handedly, he might as well try to get the most of the dancing while he could tonight. It would be an hour in five minutes, and usually both became so disgusted when the clock struck the hour that they parted. Maybe tonight would be different. The tango was not one of his strongest dances and he could certainly use the practice. He was learning a fair amount, although being the follower was rather difficult, especially in tango with too much tricky footwork and body contact. The Mariposa, for instance, was probably one of the simplest moves and he had managed in a few tries, but there were some he was nowhere near to learning. He did rather hope the lesson would last longer.

Pulling himself out of his thoughts, Harry realized he had been leaning against Malfoy, and decidedly arched his back and corrected his posture. He must have really zoned out that time—not holding up your own weight was something that every beginner learned on the first day of class. It was easy; Harry admitted though, that when one was a follower it was simpler to get away with the slack. In addition, he noticed that in some point in time music had begun to play. This was the first time the two had danced to anything; most time it was only silence or Draco whispering the steps aloud, but now, with the music, what they were doing didn't seem like much of a lesson anymore.

Measured steps were not counted aloud nor were there heated words or any of that: they were actually dancing.

Even more so, Harry was following Draco perfectly.

So they danced.

Their bodies pressed together, in the tango, the dance of forbidden lovers, and each dancer perfectly in-tune with another.

For some time now Harry had been aware of their physical closeness and he had successfully, or perhaps, unsuccessfully managed to shake off the feeling. This was Draco Malfoy, damn it. The boy who made six years of Hogwarts a living hell, and who's father was a contributor to his Godfather's death. This should not have been someone, or something, rather, he felt any attraction to. He blamed it on the dance. He was sixteen, full of hormones, it was the tango, and the tango could make even the coldest person feel such emotions.

_But, then again, _the Boy-Who-Lived thought absently to himself, _It's__ been a while since I was perfectly at ease around any boy…_

He didn't want to think about that now. Not here. Especially not in front of Draco Malfoy. Therefore, letting go of any emotion, Harry closed his eyes and continued the steps as he had learned them; he had to focus! He did not want this to end in embarrassment on his party.

Draco, on the other hand, had his eyes firmly opened and was staring out at the moon beyond the windows. If he was nervous, he gave no apparent signs, but instead continued to dance so that Potter wouldn't notice his unease. The fact was that dancing _this _close to Potter _was _rather disconcerting. It _was _after all, Potter. The Boy-Who-Bloody-Lived and his enemy since his birth.

And now he was _dancing _with him. Not just any dance, for that matter, it was a _tango. _

_Perfect, just bloody perfect, _Draco thought to himself as he pulled Potter in closer for a particularly difficult turn, that, surprisingly, the boy followed with ease. Draco could tell that for some reason the Gryffindor had let his guard down and decided to stop being so-ruddy-difficult and _just dance _with him. It wasn't going to kill Potter, was it? No, certainly not, and, if it did, there were worse deaths, the blonde supposed correctly.

But it was just unnerving. There was no other word for it besides that. It was Potter. It was the tango: a dangerous dance for anyone.

Besides the fact that Potter was an intermediate dancer, and Draco himself being used to dancing with experts, it was _scary _how well they danced together. Draco knew he was an exceptional teacher, but not _that_ brilliant—once the two of them had actually started dancing everything had fallen, rather creepily, into place. Was that supposed to happen? Wasn't Potter supposed to be a bit more stubborn than this? It certainly seemed so. Wasn't he supposed to stumble through the moves like he had done earlier? Yes, damn it.

"Congratulations, Potter." Draco whispered, pulling the boy forward into a particularly deep lunge.

Rather surprised by the move, but adjusting his feat and following his lead's example (glad he had worn slightly stretchy pants), Harry questioned off-handedly, although obviously strained and anxious, "And why is that, Malfoy?"

"You're actually not making a complete arse of yourself."

When Harry did not suddenly mess up, trip, swear, or flush, Malfoy was surprised and annoyed. That had been Potter's cue and he had missed it.

"Well, coming from you, that means the world." Harry rolled his eyes as they began in the forward—or in his case—back, position of the dance.

The music was beginning to wind down and in one final burst of energy Draco pulled and guided Harry across the shimmering floor, ending in a mezzo Corte with an added dip. Potter was supposed to mess up again, to miss the cue; and once again he did not, and quite suddenly Draco found the boy in his arms.

There were no more lilting notes. There was only silence in the ballroom, mingling with the heavy breathes of the two dancers.

Draco looked down at the Potter who was clutched in his left arm and holding onto his right hand with pressure.

Their eyes met and—

Harry fell to the floor. Hard. And with a very loud _thump. _

"What the hell, Malfoy?" Harry snarled, rubbing his backside, his cheeks flushed with emotion and exertion. That had hurt. Quite badly, actually. Especially when he hadn't expected it. What had the bloke been thinking?

That had been_ too_ close. Draco stepped away from the fallen figure, not even offering his hand, but looking decidedly disgruntled and irked at the Gryffindor. Quickly as he could manage, Draco rationalized, "What do you mean, 'what the hell?' You messed up! I can't support your whole weight in my left arm, you have to balance yourself as well, you know Potter. I can't carry you during the entire dance. It isn't _my _job."

"I'm not the one who is leading," Harry pointed out, standing up slowly, still scowling at his rival as he rubbed his sore rear.

Ignoring the feeble attempts, Draco continued sweepingly, and very confident sounding, "And I'm not the one who is following. Just because you follow doesn't mean you don't _do _anything. You are what make the dance agreeable—I can only help you to create the beauty, but I certainly am not going to do it _all _for you. Who do you take me for, Potter?"

Harry couldn't think of much to say, so instead he thought of his usual comeback. The Gryffindor's frown deepened and he scoffed, "I don't know why I bother with you, Malfoy."

"Excuse me—why _you _bother with _me_? I'm the one who should be complaining. I _offered _to help you Potter, and don't you forget that." Draco pointed out irritably, grabbing a cup of water and draining the remains. Water. Cold. Cold. Yes, cold was a good thing.

"I don't think you'll let me forget it."

"Very good, Potter. You learn quick."

Harry remained silent at that comment and instead walked across the length of the room and opened one of the windows to let in a cool night breeze into the slightly stuffy room. He was rather-er-overheated. Perhaps if he looked at something very mundane all such emotion would go away, including the soreness in his arse. _Damn Draco, he could have told me he was going to dip me! _

Once again the room was silence, just the two figures standing across a gleaming wood floor. Both of them seemed lost in their own worlds of thoughts and rationalizations. Draco, the more aware of the two, felt the nervousness in the air and quickly grasped for something extremely general to pass the time until the clock struck the hour.

"Just out of curiosity, how did you start ballroom dancing?" _Yes, that will do, _"It's not something that's particularly popular, in magic or Muggle realms." Draco commented, sliding into a chair and balancing the glass on his forehead. Yessss, that felt _good. _

Harry shrugged, half heartedly. He didn't particularly mind talking. Truth be told he was surprised the Slytherin hadn't walked out of the room in his arrogant and 'higher-than-thou' attitude.

"M'cousin. He's about as fat as one of those pumpkins Hagrid's got by his hut. With about the IQ of one as well," was his answer.

Draco snorted, but said nothing. Not much to say, really. He had a few of those relatives in his bloodline, although he would be the last one to admit it. Although there was Uncle Rufus, but he had never been invited to family functions. For the general part he was ignored.

Continuing on, not nervously, but more moodily, still rather cross at the leader, Harry related, "So, I got drug along like I always do and ended up going to all the classes while he went and fooled around or whatever. I guess I just got good at it, I suppose you could say."

"Yeah," Draco coughed ironically, "_Good."_

"Shut up," Harry grumbled, not angrily, but just more out of sheer exhaustion. Those last ten minutes of dancing had taken a lot out of him, both physically and mentally—but probably, they had exhausted Malfoy; to lead and essentially make the decisions for the two of them was no easy feat. Having been the guide in the past, Harry knew what a difficult job it was—heightened when there were a number of people out on the dance floor.

"Still," Harry found himself continuing, "It kept me occupied this past summer. I mean, it gave me something to do besides homework and the like."

"Oh, yes," Draco hissed, almost snake-like, "I forgot, you live with Muggles. That explains your utterly horrible fashion sense."

Harry snorted, "Yeah, they've got as much taste in clothes as a sack of potatoes. But there isn't much to do there, you know, and it was rather difficult to see—er—_friends _over the summer, so I just found myself getting into dancing. Not by choice, really, more like chance."

"What you mean to say," the Slytherin pointed out archly, "Is that you didn't get much communication from The Order and were going stark raving mad and you did this to pass the time from watching photographs and doing Potions homework."

"Sounds about right…I forgot you know about The Order."

"You seem to forget that a lot. Along with the fact that I am not a Death Eater."

"But your father is."

"So? You're father was straight, does this mean you will be?"

"Y-yes."

"Those aren't the rumors I've heard recently."

"What rumors!" Harry choked out quite suddenly, trying extremely hard to sound disinterested. But, he had obviously failed in that department.

Draco smirked. _Just _the reaction he had been expecting. "What do they matter? I mean, you are the one who has a fine _hold _on their sexuality, remember."

The Gryffindor admitted he was tired, but not tired enough to want to stop for the night. Even though Malfoy was probably one of the biggest ass-holes he had ever met, he _could _dance leaps and bounds better than Harry. And as cheesy as it was, Harry _wanted _to learn. But still—the fact that he was having _this _conversation with Malfoy, the fact that he was even talking to Malfoy was trying his patience. Greatly. Nevertheless…he was sure he could pick up a few more moves tonight.

The thoughts even made Harry roll his eyes in disgust. It was too cliché, like some bad Muggle movie.

Decidedly ignoring the subject of his sexuality, Harry questioned brightly, "So, do you think I can lead next?"

Draco scoffed," No."

Harry had been expecting that. But to be shut down in one word was rather pathetic. "What? Why not?"

"You can't handle me yet. I get bored easily."

"I could lead you, I bet."

"Don't place too many sickles on that Potter. I'm hard to restrain."

"I could! You just can't handle the fact that I might actually do a good job."

"There isn't a fact, Potter; I _know _you couldn't do a good job."

"And what makes you so sure?"

"When you follow perfectly, then you will be able to lead perfectly."

Harry sighed at this last comment. "You're impossible, Malfoy, you always have been. You think you are _so _sure of yourself. Even from the first day with your hair slicked back like some kind of salesman."

"What are you babbling about now? It's a perfectly respectable hairstyle. Are you upset that I insulted your little Weasel friend?"

"The Weasleys are the nicest people in the world, if not a little odd."

"I'm sure. Odd being an understatement, of course," Draco drawled, with the empty glass still balanced miraculously upon his head. "Be that as it may, I don't and didn't particularly care. I made you an offer that day, you turned it down—and Malfoy's don't ask twice. It's a general rule."

"Like I was missing out on _so _much, like being friends to a family of Death Eaters who prance about on the weekends at balls."

"The Death Eaters again, hm?" Draco paled and closed his eyes, "I guess you could say it was your loss and my gain that we were never friends."

"And we won't ever be." Harry pointed out, "But I think I'll get over that one."

Finally, taking the empty cup off his brow, Draco placed it upon the worn desk table and shrugged, "Like I was so willing to be friends with someone who has a thing for ballroom dancing by themselves in dark rooms. Little daff, that one."

Harry, still looking out the windows towards the lake just sighed and steamed up the window glass and drew random designs in the remaining moisture. Then, glancing over his shoulder the Boy-Who-Lived smirked and tossed out, "This coming from the person who dressed up like a Dementor in third year just to faze me out?"

"And it worked, didn't it?" Draco asked archly, smirking at the memory.

Harry, frowning in turn, replied rather tersely, "But I think you got the worse end of the stick, Malfoy."

"I wouldn't be too sure. Scathing letters to Dumbledore, sweets from home, all the Slytherin's doting on my every beck and call—and what did you get out of it?"

"The satisfaction?"

"Of making me look foolish?"

"At least you admit it."

"I admit nothing, especially to you Potter."

"Oh, come off it Malfoy, you've always been a prick towards me."

"And your point being…?"

"I don't have a point."

"That I don't find hard to believe."

"Oh, sod off." Harry sighed, not disgruntled, and strangely in good humor. Much to his chagrin his partner took it in quite the opposite way.

"Well, I suppose I will, seeing as how I'm rather tired. I mean, being the _lead _is _awfully _exhausting. Of course, you wouldn't know." The blonde haired boy pointed out vexingly, "Don't sulk just because I won't let you be the guy. You're doing a pretty good job of being the girl right now. It suits you."

Before Harry had time respond to Malfoy's comment the door had clicked shut and he was left quite alone. Against his will, he thought, _A__ little daff, that one. _

Smirking, Harry yawned, stretched, and continued to dance. Yet, after five minutes of practicing, he found it wasn't the same as it had been. He felt off center and balance and quite foolish. Malfoy had done the damage and here he was, alone, in the night; but for the first time _truly _alone.


	4. chapter 4

4

Seven lessons later, the first snow had fallen—blanketing Hogwarts in a fine layer of white powder. The classrooms had become bone chillingly cold, and the winter cloaks were officially pulled out from the bottom of the chests.

Still, Christmas was still a good month away.

By this time Harry and Draco had managed to cover the basics of the Waltz, the Viennese waltz, Cha-Cha, Tango, Salsa, Lindy Hop, Foxtrot and Quickstep. Although, it was quickly made clear to Draco that Harry preferred to stick with the smooth dances and avoid the Latin types. This conclusion was come to with no lack of profanity.

"Don't like moving your ass, Potter?" Draco had quipped as he spun Harry around the floor.

"I don't care if I do or don't, I just prefer other dances." Harry had explained, now grown moderately used to Malfoy's snide remarks. Still, he couldn't help but silently sigh in his head. Why did he have this sneaking feeling that there was a double entendre with everything? Or, perhaps, he was just over thinking the situation.

"Or, is it that Latin dances are too sensual for our straight-laced Golden Boy?" Draco pressed, drawing him close, his long fingers wrapped possessively around Potter's wrist.

Harry, decidedly not looking him in the eye, replied edgily, "I'm not _that _straight laced."

At this remark, Draco's eyebrow rose slightly. Harry didn't notice, and perhaps it was better off that way.

The Gryffindor continued by adding, "Plus, if I had my choice, I would prefer the Tango. And that is far more sensual than Cha-Cha or Salsa!"

_More possessive and submissive, than passionate…_Draco thought silently to himself as he gracefully raised his arm. Harry followed quickly by turning beneath. Deciding to add a new level to the mix, Draco placed his hand in the small of Harry's back and directed him side to side in time with the music. Harry managed to follow relatively well, considering it was only the second time that Draco had attempted the pattern. As stated, Harry was not one for the Latin dances.

Eventually, the music came to a stop, and the two paused for breath, quickly magiking some water. The two were quiet, but this proved normal. The previous lessons had established the ritual of talking only while dancing, although this was usually something not done. Especially if the dancers took their work seriously.

Privately, both Harry and Draco agreed that there needed to be some form of verbal communication, or else an oppressive atmosphere would begin to overpower the room. This was brought about, Draco supposed, because when he concentrated on his dances he would find the level of possession towards his partner would become almost demanding. After a while, Draco would forget it was _Potter _he was dancing with, and he would just _dance, _without any regard for his partner's previous experience.

And yet, Potter followed. He followed too well.

Draco, over the course of the seven lessons, had noticed with astonishment the level at which Harry performing. He liked to think it was from his teaching, yet Draco had a sick sensation that, unlike his performance in Potions, Potter was actually practicing diligently. Potter was taking the dancing seriously. Even more seriously than Draco was.

Observing his dancing partner, he noticed the subtle way in which Harry had altered the posture. After six years of observing Potter, his general perception of him was that he seemed a slouchy, lackadaisical kind of fellow. But now…now a new and improved air surrounded him. Dare he say it that his posture was…was almost Slytherin? His neck slightly raised, straight posture, the makings of a Slytherin indeed.

"A pity, Potter." Draco commented, placing his cup down on the table and striding towards the window to stare down at the Great Lake that was in the process of freezing over, "You would have made a wonderful Slytherin."

Harry didn't respond, but Draco had an uncanny feeling he was rolling his eyes.

"Despite what you may think, you aren't as noble as you believe yourself to be." Draco continued, leaning against the icy wall. It felt good against his head.

"I don't place myself above others," Harry argued, not looking in the general direction of the Slytherin. He too was looking decidedly at the lake, determined to keep his attention there.

"But, you do place yourself above the rules."

"Only sometimes."

"Yes, only sometimes."

The two were quiet again, with only the ticking of the clock. And once again that nervousness that accompanied the silence. It seemed to Harry that the two were only comfortable if they danced, or made insults. What did that mean? Was it impossible for them to be civil to each other? Perhaps, Harry supposed, he had realized it was just in Malfoy's nature to be pesky and critical and he shouldn't take it so seriously. And, perhaps Malfoy had realized that bugging Harry wasn't worth the effort.

Somehow, Harry supposed, he had lost his bite—and even his bark was failing.

"Do you want to continue?" Harry questioned, the silence now growing oppressive.

Malfoy didn't respond at first, and when he did, it was in a softer voice, "Alright. What dance?"

He need not have bothered to ask Potter. It was as pure as night and day which dance he preferred.

"Vi—," Harry began enthusiastically.

"Why must it _always _be the Viennese Waltz with you, Potter?" Draco questioned annoyed.

"Well, why must it always be the Tango with you, Malfoy?" Potter responded in turn.

"Because," Draco answered quickly, "It's the best dance."

Moving away out to the middle of the dance floor, Harry glanced at Malfoy. It was a time during the new moon, and the room was only illuminated with candles. In truth, moonlight suited the Viennese Waltz, but he wasn't about to admit that. Still, they had been dancing the waltz a lot lately, so he might as well give Draco a break.

"Fine. How about a compromise?" Harry suggested, withdrawing his wand to increase the lighting a bit. There, that suited the proposed dance.

"And that would be?" Draco inquired, slightly apprehensive. _He better not choose the bloody foxtrot…_

"Swing?"

_Well, that was better than the foxtrot, _Draco supposed darkly.

"Fine." Draco spat, striding towards Harry. At least the lead could have some fun in swing…

"Eugh, Potter, you're covered in sweat." Draco scowled as the music finally ended.

Gasping for breath, Harry managed to leak out, "Well—I wasn't the one—who chose the full—length version of—Sing, Sing, Sing."

"I'll…I'll just let you know," Draco began, but found that words seemed to be failing him as well. The dance must have been more strenuous than he imagined. That or he was out of shape. Continuing, trying to speak, he said, "…Let you know... that Sing-Sing-Sing is a fabulous song…it…it just…"

"…Is really fast—and really long?" Harry supplied, sinking to the floor, too exhausted to magik the water.

Draco, who was still managing to stand, though it wouldn't surprise Harry if his legs were shaking, walked over to the table and grabbed the pitcher and glasses and made his way back towards him. A dull thump and he was leaning against the wall, his legs spread out. Most unlike a Malfoy.

"Well," Harry said after gulping down the offered water, "Viennese can be even worse than Swing if you get the right song."

"Are you sure you don't have a sadistic streak in you somewhere, Potter?" Malfoy questioned, leaning back and closing his eyes.

"Hmm," Harry pondered, "Could be."

There was quiet for a few seconds, interrupted by heaving breathing. That was probably the fastest they had ever danced before.

"Incidentally, Potter, why do you like the Viennese so much?"

"Well, why do you like the Tango so much?"

"That isn't the way it works. You go first."

Harry paused, gulped down another half a glass of water, and blurted out, "It's romantic."

Draco couldn't resist snorting in amusement, "I never took you as that type of guy. Although, considering the house you were placed in I wouldn't be surprised…though Hufflepuff seems more the emotional, mushy type."

"Well, you seem like the type to enjoy a brisk march than any type of _Tango. _Although…I guess a Tango is suited for Slytherin. It is controlling, dark, and angry." Harry reasoned to himself. Tango _did _suite Malfoy now that he thought about it.

"You make that sound like a bad thing."

"The thing with Viennese is that, well, when I think of ballroom dancing—Viennese Waltz is what I think about. People flying in circles across the room to grand music. I guess I watched too much Muggle television as a kid."

"That's hardly an excuse."

The conversation had died out again, but the two had recovered their breath and that was the important part. Still, it didn't seem that either of them wanted to dance again. Not yet. In fact, both seemed quite content to lie on the floor.

"Malfoy, when did you start learning how to dance?" Harry questioned, glancing over at the Slytherin who was sitting, no—sprawling, by his side.

His continued to rest on the figure, trailing over his feet—fitted with polished black shoes, up his long legs—covered in a dark grey material. The fabric itself, though not revealing, certainly allowed every curve and feature of Malfoy's body to be defined. His green eyes, now dilated, traveled up even further to the black button down shirt that seemed to melt into the room, and finally, up his neck, to his chin, and finally—finally on his grey eyes.

His grey eyes that were looking directly at him.

"Like what you see, Potter?" Draco quipped half heartedly, more amused than anything that Potter had been checking him out. Perhaps those rumors weren't rumors after all.

"S-Shut up Malfoy." Harry snapped, wrenching his head forward and staring firmly at the wall.

Malfoy stared at Harry for a few seconds longer, waiting, waiting for Harry to respond to his glance. But, when he didn't, Draco just silently shrugged and decided to tackle the question.

"When did I start dancing? Practically as an infant, it seemed. Some of my first memories are memorizing the box-step. I used to practice with my mother, even when she was much taller than me."

Harry realized he was smiling slightly. The thought of a toddler-sized Draco dancing with his mother was adorable, even if he was a Malfoy.

"When I was ten, I got my dance instructor whom I have had since then. Ah yes, good Annabelle, she has indeed been most _accommodating._" Draco smirked, his eyes hazy as he relived memories in his head.

Harry peaked at Draco, wondering in what way she was 'accommodating'. Surely not—not like _that_.

"I know what you are thinking Potter. You can't be as innocent as that." Draco reproached condescendingly, "I mean, I _know _you are a Gryffindor and such, but…"

Taken aback to say the least, Harry fumbled, "You mean, you had…? With her…? You're only sixteen!"

"Sixteen going on Seventeen," Draco corrected, waving a finger mockingly. Then, shrugging in a casual manner, he replied, "Not like it matters much. She probably hasn't gotten much over the course of her life--"

Pausing, Draco moved around for a moment, and withdrew from his back pocket a wallet. A very nice, wallet. But, no doubt, Harry thought—everything the Malfoy's owned was nice, even if it was plastered with snakes.

"Here—I've got a picture of her."

He held out the moving photograph.

"You? Carry around a picture of someone? Now I am shocked," Harry grinned, half incredulous.

Draco just shrugged again and said nothing.

Harry gazed down at the picture, and was met with the very recognizable face of Draco Malfoy. The photographic Draco and Harry's eyes met for a second, but they were instantly pulled away as his frame moved across the picture, his back now facing the front. Draco was dancing, the foxtrot, it seemed—with a middle aged woman. She was not ugly, Harry supposed, peering closely at her—just beyond her prime, and reminiscent of autumn. She was a woman who was fading.

The expression on the two faces matched perfectly—a bored, discontented, and distant kind of look. Harry recognized that expression, for it had a tendency to appear in Transfigurations class and Care of Magical Creatures.

"You two certainly look like you are enjoying yourself," Harry commented, now finding the picture depressing. Draco looked aged within the picture, as if life had been sucked out of him.

"She's bored, and she doesn't hide her emotions."

"You don't seem to hide them either."

Draco stiffened visibly for a second, and Harry wondered what he had said wrong.

"That was my one problem, she always said," Draco admitted, his voice oddly emotional and bitter. There was no joking, or snide remarks here, "I never danced with enough emotion. She said I could never feel what the dances were trying to say. I just acted them out."

Harry did not know what to say—although, he definitely thought that Malfoy was quite expressive when it came to dancing. He acted grand and sophisticated during the waltz, lively and (maybe?) even friendly during Lindy-hop and swing, and during the Tango…

Well, Harry would not think about what happened to Malfoy when he did the Tango.

But, looking down at Malfoy in the picture that now lay resting on the polished for, he found that face foreign to him on the dance floor. Somehow, the Slytherin always managed to wear some expression of interest, or emotion. The face in the photograph was one that Malfoy wore during school, at Quidditch matches, in the Great Hall. Yes, that expression was foreign to this room.

And Harry liked it that way.

Perhaps, Harry found himself thinking, Malfoy had emotions because it was him, Harry.

The chime of the clock disturbed the two.

Clearing his throat, Draco questioned, "One more?"

It was more of a statement than a question, but at this point, Harry didn't mind.

Harry stood up, nodding, and then added, "Sure, but only if it's Tango."

Draco's eyebrows rose, and he smirked, "I think I can manage that."

* * *

Amazing! An update! Well, let me know what you think. 


	5. chapter 5

Authors Note: It has been long, long time since I worked on this story. However, it was brought out of hibernation by the plain and simple fact that come this July, Harry Potter and its world will cease to exist as we know it. Whatever that book may bring will be important to the world of fandom, and as far as I am concerned somewhat difficult to overlook. I wanted to finish this story in time for the book release on July 21st, 2007. I have already finished up another unfinished Harry Potter fanfic (Conquering the Darkness) and have moved onto this one. The writing style as in previous chapters may seem very different. I have attempted to shorten the prose while still attempting to capture the essence. Also, keep in mind, that there has been a very large gap in the story between since when I last updated and today. There might be some holes, and it might seem rather rushed. Still, I wanted to finish it: both for myself and for all the lovely people who have reviewed this story and given me hope about it. Please enjoy the chapters to come.

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Chapter 5.

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"The Rumba is a slow, intimate dance, Potter."

There was the shuffle of feet in the room while the soft Latin music continued to play. For those who had been walking the halls at night, seeing two boys dancing in a room was an odd sight; it was even odder when these two boys were Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.

However, if there had been any peeping-toms the two boys seemed quite unaware as they silently danced around the floor. Harry's face was calm and relaxed looking, his eyes only partly open as he tried not to see the steps--but feel them. Like Quidditch, his senses were fine-tuned, though this time not to a golden snitch hiding elusively in the shadows; instead, he tried to predict the moves before they came as he sensed the shifting muscles of his partner beneath his fingers.

It was a quiet scene that, should someone have witnessed it a few weeks earlier, they would have been most off put by the amount of swearing and snarky comments. But, now, things had worked themselves out, and a cautious friendship had formed between the most unlikely of pairs.

"Want to call it a night?" Draco questioned, releasing Harry from his hold--his hands falling to his sides as the dance ended.

Harry did not respond at first, he was still visualizing one of the steps they had done in his head.

"Hey, Potter--?" Draco began again.

"What? Oh, um, sure. If you want. We can stop for the night though, if you like." Harry seemed rather far away.

When Draco did not respond, it answered the question. It seemed neither of them wanted to go--but neither wanted to dance.

Walking to the window, Harry took off his shoes commenting off-handedly, "I never thanked you for the shoes. How much do I owe you?" It was now two weeks until Christmas, and the snow outside the window was piling up nicely Harry noticed, hoping onto the window seat and stretching his legs in front of him.

Draco, striding over to the window as well, leaned against the edge and replied, "They were a gift."

Harry simply blinked at the comment, "A gift? I can pay you back, though."

"I know you aren't in the same dire financial plight as your friend, Potter--and neither am I. A gift is a gift, even if it is coming from _me._"

For a moment Harry simply looked at Malfoy, a million incomprehensible thoughts streaming through his head. Malfoy was actually being nice in his round-about way. Was this possible?

As the situation called for a response, Harry grinned nervously (aware that he was blushing, slightly) and said, "Thanks."

Draco studied Harry for a moment. He was seated, his back against the window, his face slightly cast into shadow. The Gryffindor-emblazed school shirt was opened to the collar bone, revealing his bronzed skin beneath, and his long legs were crossed over themselves in a casual manner. In fact, Draco mused, this was the most relaxed Potter had ever been around him.

Draco sniffed and commanded rather haughtily, "Scoot over."

Harry complied, making room for him on the window seat by shifting right. He was quite surprised when, instead of sitting in the same fashion that he had chosen to--Draco instead sat length wise, his back against the side of the arched window and his own legs falling over Harry's lap.

"Oy!" Harry exclaimed, not really insulted but stunned, "What are you doing?"

"Relaxing. Dancing is tiring business, you know."

"Yeah, well, you don't have to relax all over me!"

Draco looked at him now, a smirk that Harry often saw reserved for particularly attractive females, "Why not? You make a perfectly good foot rest, you know."

Harry just gave him a look-of-death. Why did the bloody Slytherin think he could push him about that way?

"Make yourself useful and massage my feet, would you?" Draco teased with a smirk. "It's _so _hard being the lead, not like _you _would know..."

"Gerroff!" Harry commanded, finding his temper getting worked up. Draco, on the other hand, still looked like a content cat, highly amused by the situation. It really was quite easy to get the Gryffindor's feathers riffled.

Harry pushed at Draco's legs half-heartedly, and again Draco gave Harry an amused, calculating glance as he took in the disgruntled and flushed look on his dance partner's face.

"Alright, well," Draco said with a sigh, moving his legs off the body and swinging them down to the floor, "We need to practice some dips--because you keep on not supporting your weight."

Harry barely had time to register that he rather missed the warm, comfortable weight resting atop him when Draco made that comment. Rising to the challenge, he insisted, "I do too!"

"Well then, prove it."

The music started up, a rumba again. And although rumba was a slower dance it had its share of dramatic dips. Harry, as he often thought, didn't know why he was practicing this. Leads did not dip.

But that argument ceased to work long ago.

Taking their positions and assuming the more relaxed one hold of the rumba, the music began. The two worked slowly, gathering momentum as they worked their way up and down the long dance floor. Although Harry fumbled a few times, in general, the dance could be considered a success. Throughout the song Draco dipped him a number of times, and with each successive dip Harry improved. He learned how to place his feet to ensure the proper amount of leverage.

At last, the song (Sway) began to fade out and Harry felt a light pressure in the small of his back--the signal for a dip. Slowly, slowly, slowly Draco lowered Harry as far down as he thought the boy could manage without falling down. Draco kept his own eyes safely averted, looking blandly at the floorboards. Since that first time he had dipped Harry he learned not to look at the boy or his body during the process. It would only lead to him loosing his concentration, and thereby his grip.

The song faded to an end, and slowly, like gathering water from a well, Draco drew Harry up and to his eyelevel. He did not relinquish his hold immediately, but instead searched and met Harry's eyes in the dark.

The two stared for a long, silent moment. Draco still had not released him and Harry did not protest. Instead, the two looked at each other, searching their faces, as through drinking in every detail.

_Surely, _Draco thought dimly to himself, _if he wanted to pull away he would have by now…_

A few more seconds passed and to Draco's utter surprise he felt Potter relax slightly against him--as though his defenses were at last down.

It was then Draco knew how deep in the two had tread and with the greatest reluctance he relinquished his hold on his partner. With a slap his arms fell to his sides, fingers brushing against Harry's pant leg along the way.

Harry did not move, but suddenly looked as lost and as frightened as a lamb in the wild--as though he had somehow been deceived. He continued to stare at Draco, as though challenging him to finish what he started.

But Draco would have none of that.

"Well, we've both got a Transfiguration Test tomorrow…," Draco sighed, sounding rather disappointed himself, "Better call it a night."

Harry was still preoccupied on what had just happened. He mumbled something bland and quietly made his way back to the window seat and sat there for a long, long time thinking things over. Footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor, and then silence.

These several weeks had certainly been interesting--Draco had become his dance instructor and, although they had started out rather shaky, it seemed as though they had finally found their rhythm. The insults had grown fewer and their conversations had grown deeper and deeper. They actually had a few laughs and revealed lesser known facts about themselves.

Draco had admitted that he whittled as a hobby, though he recently took up sculpting--a confession that had immediately caused hysterical laughter. And Harry, sharing an equally embarrassing fact about himself, retold the story of Dudley's tenth birthday and Harry's mishap with the toaster. The two had actually enjoyed themselves and been amiable.

Then there were those moments that Harry would only for the very brief of second admit to happening: the time when they caught each other's eyes and did not look away, the tension they often felt when they danced the tango, the way Draco's muscles worked beneath his flesh.

Contrary to popular belief, Harry was not an idiot; he could read the signs. It was true that, since Cho, he had not been close with a girl, but did that automatically mean he wasn't attracted to girls? Certainly there were some good looking one's at the school--Ginny was growing up to be quite attractive, and a few girls in Ravenclaw were quite striking; yet they did not give him the same, hot, feverish, nervous feeling that he felt every time he danced with Draco.

It seemed that Harry was on the verge of catharsis when the door to the room slowly creaked open.

Glancing up, Harry first thought Draco had forgotten something and doubled back. Immediately, he felt his pulse quicken.

"Forget something, Malfoy?" He grimaced inwardly at how happy--and hopeful?-- his voice sounded.

"Actually," a voice quite different from Malfoy's answered causing every fiber in Harry's being to stiffen, "I haven't. It appears I have found something though."

Harry looked up, and let out a sigh of relief, relaxing. Thank goodness it wasn't Flich or Snape!

"Professor Dumbledore," he croaked, still rather nervous, but knowing that he wouldn't be getting detention any time soon, siding from the window seat. "What are you doing here?"

"That is my question precisely, Mr. Potter," the elderly wizard replied, placing his tray of milk and cookies down on the little table where Harry's books on dancing were strewn. "Imagine my surprise when, on my nightly visit down to the kitchen for a little evening snack, I stumble upon two of the top students here at Hogwarts--dancing, no less--in this room!"

Dumbledore did not seem angry nor amazed, merely amused.

"And Mr. Malfoy, no less. I must say that was quite astonishing, given how much you two…_like _each other."

Harry gulped, and nervously walked towards the professor who, despite being in his dressing gown, looked as noble as ever.

"Well, actually, we've been meeting here a few times a week to--," Harry cut off, feeling suddenly highly embarrassed. Saying what the two of them were doing, especially to the headmaster seemed highly ridiculous. Nonetheless, he swallowed his pride and finished, "To practice dancing. With Quidditch canceled we both felt we needed other forms of, er, exercise."

"Indeed, seemed that you have worked up quite a sweat."

Harry thought best not to mention the cause for such sweat, but instead smiled rather sickly.

"Yes…well, we didn't think us being here would bother anyone…"

"Indeed, you have bothered no one!" Dumbledore continued in a cheerful manner, dipping his cookie in some milk and munching on in quite merrily, "In fact, your efforts have inspired an idea in me."

Harry could feel the doom entering the room, "Sir?"

"Yes! Most brilliant now that I think about it more…" Dumbledore clattered away, "What with the sorry state of affairs with Voldemort and this terrible war, people are quite afraid and disheartened."

Harry merely nodded, wondering where this was taking them.

"We need to give the students of Hogwarts something to look forward to, something to cheer their spirits before they go home for the holiday season and get downtrodden by overly-worried parents…"

Harry murmured. Merlin, what did the wizard have up his sleeve?

"That is why I believe I shall propose a dance!"

"A dance?" Harry gulped, "You mean, like the Yule Ball?"

"Similar, though perhaps a little more…how would you say, refined? The Weird Sisters are all well and good, but what these students really know is how to dance in society after Hogwarts--should there be any cause for rejoicing anytime soon."

At this Harry responded, a little more heartily, "Hopefully _very soon, _Sir."

"That's the spirit, Harry!"

Dumbledore beamed at him for a moment, and then continued, "That is why I want you to help out Minerva, rather Professor McGonagall, in instructing the dance lessons."

Harry did not respond, but felt as though he would rather belch up slugs then help McGonagall in front of the entire school teach students how to dance.

"Isn't there something _else _I could do, sir? Maybe something besides dancing?"

Dumbledore shook his head, thinking Harry modest, "Certainly not! You are a formidable dancer--as I witnessed. We need your expertise, I am sure!"

Harry grimaced, but nodded. He had a feeling that come tomorrow morning he would have a lot of explaining to do with Ron and Hermione when the "Formal Dance (To Promote Interhouse Unity!)" posters appeared on the common room notice boards.

* * *

The news of the dance had traveled quickly throughout Hogwarts, almost as much as the wave of rumors that had begun to surface as to why Dumbledore had decided to throw a dance--an occurrence highly unusual at Hogwarts.

Seamus seemed to take the matter rather lightly, "I wouldn't mind a dance m'self, what with what the Prophet has been saying and all…"

Hermione agreed. To her the fact that Dumbledore had announced this "Formal Dance" was no surprise. "After all, remember his speech at the beginning of the year? He called again to promoting Interhouse unity--and maybe he felt a dance could help expedite this problem."

Ron didn't care either way, having made sure _this _time to ask a girl out early and not wait until the last minute. Within minutes of the announcement, it had been decided that Ron and Hermione would be going to the dance together. Hermione was tickled pink, and Ron seemed in a cracking good mood--one of the best Harry had seen the entire year (N.E.W.T.S _were _coming up, after all.)

Many students felt that the only low point of the entire experience was the _mandatory _dance lessons. Thankfully the lessons were not taught by the head of each house, although Professor Sprout and McGonagall had offered to instruct the students that Friday so they had some idea for the dance on Monday.-

"Why couldn't they hire someone--if they are going to _make _us do _this _type of dancing?" Ron groaned as he, Hermione and Harry trampled to the Great Hall after a particularly difficult Potions exam. "I mean…it's just so _weird _watching two _old ladies _instruct. Why couldn't they get someone cooler, and--,"

"Younger, Mr. Weasley?" a cold, crisp voice from behind them questioned.

The three turned around and found a rather miffed looking McGonagall. "A-! Ah, Professor…" was all Ron could manage, turning a shade of red reminiscent of a cooked beet.

"Since you seem so keen to have someone 'young' and 'hip' dance--I volunteer you to be my first partner. I'll see you three-," she eyed Harry and Hermione, "in five minutes _sharp _in the Great Hall."

The head of Gryffindor left in a swirl of plaid and Ron just stood there looking dejected, "I've never seen her like that before…" he whispered, though it sounded closer to a whimper.

All Hermione could say was, "Of course she was upset. You mentioned her age!"

"What's that got to do with it?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, "Trust me, just best not to mention age when it comes to girls."

The trio continued on their way, Harry and Ron casting confused glances at each other. It seemed that both of them concluded that they would never be able to understand the way the female mind worked.

Upon arrival, the three found the Great Hall a mass of scarlet and emerald as Slytherin and Gryffindor were assigned dance lessons at the same time. Harry quickly suppressed a sigh--it figured that they would be partnered with Slytherin. The only upside to the situation was that he wouldn't be forced to dance with Malfoy.

_After all, _Harry thought as he took a seat, _The partnering is girl-boy…_ Harry was unsure whether he felt happy or dejected about this fact...

Once settled, the students talked amongst themselves, most of them bemoaning the fact that the dance was limited to more "traditional" types of dancing.

"I mean _really,_" Harry heard Pansy comment in her high-pitched annoying voice, "Who _waltzes _now-a-days anyways? My grandmother, that's who!"

There seemed to be a general murmur of agreement among the Slytherin's, but Harry caught Draco's eye and found him slightly flushed and embarrassed. No doubt, Harry thought to himself, Draco was wondering how his fellow students would react when they saw how well he could dance. Of course, many of the Slytherin's knew how to dance the waltz and the like, but none of them could probably dance as well as Draco.

Harry knew that as much as the two of them would have preferred to hide under a rock rather then demonstrate their ability, there was no use hiding it. If you knew how to dance, despite all efforts, it would somehow make itself apparent; whether in the posture, the movement of the feet, the position of the neck, all these elements gave the two of them away.

"Class!" McGonagall announced upon her entry, sporting with her the largest victrola Harry had ever seen, "Settle down!"

With a speed Snape would have been proud of, the class quickly fell into silence.

"Now," She began, walking up and down the rows of students, "The last dance, the _Yule Ball, _was a dance celebrating inter-school unity. This dance is for unity within _our _school, which you would think wouldn't be as hard to attain."

She paused and seemed to eye the Slytherins--in particular Crabbe and Goyle who were making spit bubbles.

"_That _dance, however enjoyable it might have been, is quite different from this one. I, and other staff members, were quite shocked at the deplorable state at which the students danced. How can it be that students don't know a simple Fox Trot now?"

As she said this, she magiced the old victrola closer, obviously not knowing the large amount of students that had broken out into giggles.

"The _Foxtrot--?"_

"Who dances _that _anymore?"

"She can't be serious, can she?"

"I am quite serious, Mr. Weasley!" The Transfigurations teacher answered icily in reply. "Now, as you so willingly decided to be a volunteer for this demonstration--,"

Ron sunk lower in his seat.

"Please come down here so we can give the students an idea of what dancing is _supposed _to look like."

Ron gave Hermione and Harry an oddly fleeting look. There was no chance he was going to get out of this one! He had already provoked McGonagall's wrath in the hallway earlier, and now just sealed it with his last comment.

Harry, quite pleased that he could stay anonymously up in the bleachers for once, gave his best mate a sympathetic pat on the back before sending him on his way.

"Boys…," Hermione grumbled, crossing her legs, "_Really, _I don't see what is so bad about dancing."

"That's the spirit, Ms. Granger!" McGonagall called to her, before facing Ron (who stood a good six centimeters above her.)

Ron turned his familiar shade of green he often turned at Quidditch games, but said nothing. As she instructed, he placed his hand on her waist, and took her hand in his.

"Posture, Mr. Weasley! Posture!"

He straightened up at once. Make that ten centimeters taller.

The lesson progressed, and Harry found his thoughts wandering as McGonagall explained the concept of "frame" and the "box step", underarm turns and the like. His thoughts found themselves in the Room of Requirement, where they often found themselves. What would Draco teach him tonight? Would they argue? The lessons had been going better…It was actually nice to spend time with someone besides Ron and Hermione, who spent half the time yelling at each other and the other half flirting.

Draco was most refreshing, even though he drove Harry insane a lot of the time. His body drove him insane too--how did he manage to pull off some of those dips that Harry struggled at? How did he just keep on dancing, dance after dance, seemingly unaffected?

Perhaps it was his long legs. Harry thought on that, remembering how their form shifted beneath the fabric, how long, lanky quality…An image came to him, of those legs--Yet it wasn't just his legs anymore, in fact his thoughts had gone decidedly northern.

Okay.

Not Draco's legs.

Must have been his strong arms, toned from Quidditch practice. Or perhaps it was his chest--Harry had never _seen _Draco's chest but he imagined it to be quite nice and--

"Mr. Potter!"

His thoughts were interrupted, much to his relief and irritation, by McGonagall.

"Since you seem so interested in dancing, Mr. Potter--I would like to demonstrate all the steps me and Mr. Weasley have demonstrated."

Harry looked around--surely he wasn't supposed to go down and dance in front of everyone? How in Merlin's name was he supposed to hide the fact that he actually _knew _how to dance?

"Actually--Professor," Harry began, wishing he had thought to carry a puking pastille in his pocket, "I'm not feeling so well…"

"Just nerves!" She replied briskly, walking the victrola and selecting a record. "Hurry up now; we need to have enough time for group practice!"

Harry looked at Hermione who looked on pitifully. Obviously, she thought he _ought _to be paying attention and it looked like she would have told him as much if he hadn't been zoning out.

"Time waits for no one!" She continued on, as she loaded the record.

Harry descended down the small bleachers, feeling his face redden. Perhaps McGonagall would back-steer him, and then he would be able to just stumble along and look incompetent like all the other boys!

Whatever panicked thoughts had been running through Harry's minded halted when he heard a familiar laughter echoing through the room. He glanced at the Slytherins and found Malfoy beside himself with laughter. What _was _so funny!?

McGongall also had the same thought in mind, and she snapped, "What's so funny, Mr. Malfoy?"

It took Draco a moment to recover. He had turned slightly pink.

"It's P-Potter! Him? Dance?"

McGonagall at last took pity on her own students, and retaliated, "I'm sure he will be brilliant."

Harry just narrowed his eyes. What was Malfoy playing at? _Maybe _if the bloke _let him lead _he would be able to improve!

"Brilliant? More like brilliantly terrible!" Malfoy continued, well aware that every eye in the room was on him.

"Well then, since you believe you can do better I insist you come down and demonstrate to the class."

His laughing stopped instantly. Harry, however, thought, _Caught in your own trap, Malfoy._

And with that Harry calmly walked out into the middle of the dance floor, looking innocently up at Draco.

"But professor--," Draco began.

"No 'buts'! Please, come down. Now."

Draco knew better than to resist. House points were at stake here, and already Slytherin was barely in the lead.

He made his way down the steps, scowling and looking most unruffled. When he at last arrived, he stood next to Harry--apparently waiting for something.

"Well, what are you doing, Mr. Malfoy?"

He glared at her for a moment, saying sharply, as if she were incompetent, "I need a partner."

McGonagall looked triumphant, "A partner, you say? Why, he's standing right next to you. Surely you can dance lead as well as follow?"

The other students all murmured to each other. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy? Dance? _Together_? This was something they had to see.

_Of course I can bloody well do both, you daft woman._

Harry saw Ron grimace to him, but Harry just eyed his 'partner' with an air of satisfaction, a smirk playing on his lips. Things couldn't be going better! The fact that even some of Malfoy's friends had erupted into uncontrollable giggles made the situation all the more sweet.

"Now," McGonagall began, starting the record, "Let's see how you two do."

The music began--it sounded like something by Strauss, Harry noted dimly. But certainly this wasn't a waltz? It was! A Viennesse Waltz! What was McGonagall playing at? Harry cast her a look, but she looked at them quite smugly like the cat who had swallowed the canary.

So, she planned to embarrass both of them by giving them music which she believed them could not dance to?

A feeling of rebellion rose within Harry. McGonagall was his Head of House--but if _she _was willing to play dirty, so was he!

Harry extended his hand to Draco, who gave him a curious look, but only for a moment. Harry could tell he was annoyed--Draco had been trying to monopolize leading for all their lessons, adamant that Harry did not have enough skills to lead. Now, there was nothing Draco could do but dance where Harry led.

Draco grudgingly took Harry's hand and they began.

They began slowly, Draco looking over Harry's shoulder as though he was determined not to give an inch. Harry could tell his partner was doing everything in his power to go against where he was being led, but, Draco could only take so much and at last he was forced to move as Harry wished him to.

The two did not talk as they whirled faster and faster along the dance floor. Harry tried to keep them constantly moving, never allowing them long enough to stop and look at their students. Had they, they would have seen the shock and amazement written on their faces--and even that of McGonagall's as well.

It seemed only seconds that the two had been dancing in a swirl of colors when at last the music faded away. Once again they landed in the middle of the dance floor. The two did not break away immediately as the two found themselves staring at the other, their breathing ragged.

The stare lasted longer than either expected and Harry surprised himself by not pulling away. It felt as though they spent several moments looking into each other's eyes. At last, Draco conceded and sighed, "Not bad there, Potter."

Then, the spell was broken, and the two separated, each gasping for breath. It was also at this time that they noticed the deafening noise that surrounded them, of their classmates clapping ecstatically. McGonagall, Harry noticed, was wiping tears from her eyes.

Stepping forward, she only managing to cry, "Well…!" repeatedly.

Clapping Harry on the back she cried, "Superb leading! I haven't seen one so young lead so well since Florence Emerson!"

Not having a clue who she was talking about, Harry just grinned nervously at Draco who grinned slightly back.

"And Mr. Malfoy--I'm sure you couldn't have known of Potter's ability in dance or else you would have never laughed! Your leading was exquisite! Though I can't say I'm surprised, the Malfoy's have always been known for being wonderful dancers."

Draco looked away, clearly not wanting to take that compliment from his professor, his expression worried. Obviously, Harry surmised, Draco was wondering the same thing--how to explain to his friends that he danced _that well. _

Harry caught Ron and Hermione's at last amongst the crowd. Ron still looked shell-shocked, and Hermione looked as though she had screamed herself hoarse.

"Thirty points to Gryffindor! And Twenty-Five to Slytherin!" Cheered McGonagall as she made her way back to the post by the record player.

The class began to settle down as Harry and Draco made their way back to their seats.

"Now class," McGonagall began again, "Let Mr. Potter and Mr. Malfoy be something to work towards!"

The rest of the class descended out onto the dance floor but Harry and Draco remained seated, oftentimes casting hesitant smiles each other's way.

* * *

Harry had not had a chance to talk to Draco after their "dancing class" so he came early to the Room of Requirement, hoping that Draco would arrive early as well.

As Harry waited, he looked back on the incident which seemed entirely surreal. Not only had he danced with Draco Malfoy, he had danced _lead_ with Draco Malfoy. And practically in front of the entire school! It was already the latest gossip fluttering around the school halls and Harry had shove off a more than a few girls who had wanted "private dance lessons."

Harry chuckled nervously. What an odd afternoon it had been.

Then! Then there was the whole ordeal explaining to Ron and Hermione how he knew how to dance in the first place. "Hadn't he hated dancing at the Yule Ball?" Hermione and questioned. And, "When were you going to tell us, mate?" Ron had interrogated.

It was then that Harry had told them everything. Well, everything except for the fact that Draco Malfoy was his dance instructor. He claimed he had just gotten "that good" over the summer.

It didn't look like Hermione had completely believed him and sneaking out early had been especially difficult this evening. She had been waiting for him to leave in his invisibility cloak, and it wasn't until Neville came in from his detention with Snape (blowing up one too many potions in the semester) that he was able to sneak out.

"Not like I'm doing anything particularly bad," Harry grumbled to himself, as he stretched his limbs on the floor, "Just getting some exercise is all."

Although, truth be told, Harry thought to himself--he was getting more than just exercise. Malfoy had become a friend in a strange sort of way--yes, a friend that often times he wanted to punch and walk out of the room in a huff from, or kiss, or--

Wait, where did that come from?

About to rethink that line of thought, he was interrupted with, "Got here early, too, huh?"

Draco had just walked in the room.

Harry decided to abandon that troubling idea until later and grinned, "Yeah, well--,"

Draco just looked down at him, a quizzical smile on his face. "You really surprised me today, Potter."

Harry gulped, suddenly feeling rather hot. Was Malfoy complementing him? "W-what do you mean?"

"I mean your dancing of course." He replied lazily as he put on his shoes, "You were quite good."

Harry flushed, and cried _almost _gleefully, "Really? See I--,"

"I guess the training has helped you more than I thought it would."

"Training? You just let me follow is all."

Draco looked at him pitifully in a 'this-boy-is-oblivious' look. "Is _all? _Potter, leading isn't all fun and games, as you well noticed this afternoon. You have to work at being a _good _lead. One has to be able to follow you."

"Well _you _followed me, so obviously I must be ready!"

"I did follow you, yes…" It seemed Draco couldn't get out of _that _one.

Harry remained silent, and looked rather smug.

"This means that I can start leading from now on, right?"

Draco let out a small burst of laughter almost immediately. "You? Lead? I said you could lead--yes--but keep in mind Potter that you were leading a skilled dancer in the Viennese waltz, most conveniently your strongest dance."

"What's that got to do with it?" Harry questioned hotly.

"It has to do with everything! You're good at Viennese, yes, there is no denying that. But you are good at it because it is a dance exactly like a Gryffindor, like you--its all about pomp and circumstance, big movements, and being grandiose!"

"Yeah, so--?"

"So? So?! So--if it has to do with anything with _passion _you stumble all over the place. You haven't got a romantic or sexually charged part in your body, Potter. Though you think you _ought _to have one by default--but who knows, it seems like it broke when it came with you."

Harry didn't know how to reply to that. Of course he was romantic! And horny--if he need to use that word, well he was definitely that. Merlin, he was a teenager! What _else _was he _but _that?

Then again, Harry thought in the back of his mind, it had been quite a long time since he had kissed anyone…or even felt that sense of attraction. Or even thought about anyone he would remotely snog…

_What are you talking about? _His mind questioned, _Weren't you just thinking along those lines before Malfoy barged in here?_

Draco had been watching the range of emotions that passed over Harry's face. First adamant annoyance, then embarrassment and then at last rather depressed looking. It seemed whatever he had said had hit home.

"Well then, Potter," Draco began at last, feeling rather sorry for him. Perhaps he had been too harsh after all, "looks like you're going to have to prove it."

Harry had been deep in thought, as though realizing something completely incredulous.

"What?"

"Prove it to me--that you have enough passion for more Latin dances."

Harry remained silent, looking at Draco almost as though he was seeing him for the first time.

Draco continued, turning his back on Harry as a flush began to creep up his neck, "I-I know that is why you avoid Latin dances, you know. You are afraid of being that close with someone. Being that intimate like that."

At last Harry opened his mouth to speak, and found his voice hesitant and shy, "I'm not scared, you know…"

_I just want to dance intimately with someone I am intimate with. _

"Then, prove that to me," Draco urged again, turning around and staring straight into Harry's eyes. "If you prove to me you aren't scared--then I will let you dance the lead all you want."

The two faced each other in the darkened room. There was no moonlight tonight, as snow clouds had blanketed the valley of Hogwarts.

"That is…," Draco added, a slight, mocking sneer appearing on his lips, "if you have it in you."

Harry stood up at once, and with his wand flicked on the music. It just happened to be that the Tango was already selected for that evening. Tossing his wand aside, Harry returned to his spot--his green eyes glowing in their determination.

"Then let's dance."

Draco smirked, and took one step closer to Harry.

Inside, Harry felt himself trembling; he was supposed to be passionate. To him, that meant only one thing: letting all his restrictions free.

Extending his hand, he felt Draco's finger's press into his palm.

With a sudden force, almost whip-like, Harry pulled him forward and pressed him close to his body. Their dance had begun.

Harry let his fingers brush along the outline of his partner's body, noticing the delicate curve to his flesh. With one hand he steered Draco over his legs, who thereby added an embellishment. The two twirled around, and Harry pressed Draco down lower, lower, lower…Draco's left leg lay behind him, and his right now beneath him.

Draco was completely and utterly in Harry' control.

He drew him up, like a spider who slowly draws in the fly. Draco looked up, his eyes dark and dilated. At last, when fully upright Harry left Draco exposed in the cool room as he slowly prowled around his frame, gently passing kisses across his upper back. He noticed the arch in Draco's neck as it followed the trail as it fluttered across his back. At last, when Harry faced him, he opened up his arms again and drew Draco in--their eyes locking.

In all honesty, Draco felt weak in the knees though he conveyed nothing. Instead his eyes searched for Harry's in the black of the room.

The two fell into a few forward steps, almost tumbling over themselves in their intentional looseness.

Arms above their heads, Harry closed the distance again as he pulled Draco into an under-arm hug, their arms crossed in front of their bodies, Harry's head buried in the hallow of Draco's neck.

Draco, who was finding it hard to breathe, just kept dancing, one foot in front of the other.

Arms melted away and Draco felt pressured applied in the small of his back. Willingly, falling into the sensation he fell backwards into a shallow dip. Although not looking up he felt the gentle splash of fingers traveling down his collar bone to his chest.

Harry murmured as he did so, and quickly and violently again pulled Draco toward him, as though Draco were a possession he would not let get away.

Draco's leg flew gracefully into the air and wrapped itself around Harry's own. The lead leaned forward, bringing the follower down as well, his arms wrapped gently around Harry's body. The two looked at each other now, Harry's dark hair creating a curtain blocking out all the light; only the reflection in his eyes was visible.

The song began to fade, but still the dip continued, and grew only deeper. At last, Harry distanced himself from Draco, though his body was still enveloped in his arms. With the last chord of the song Harry brought him forward, unable to think.

He looked into the grey eyes yet again, and found nothing to hinder him.

The next moments their lips were pressed together as their bodies pressed into the wall. Like the dance they had just finished their hands felt out at times cautiously, at others violently and passionately.

Draco pushed his chest forward and felt blindly as he reached out for the buttons that blocked his way. They came undone soon enough, and his lips reached out to kiss hot, wet trails down Harry's neck. Harry could hardly think let alone say anything. All he could do was run his hands through Draco's long hair, now damp with sweat.

When at last he felt the night air upon his skin and Draco's lips no more, Harry quickly found them again in the darkness as he simultaneously pushed Draco's body deeper into the corner.

It took quite a while for either of them to wish to talk. Instead they grey more and more acquainted with each other's bodies over the course of the night.

At one point Draco murmured rather feverishly, "I-I was wrong Potter."

Harry looked up, grinning, and kissed trails on the Slytherin's lips. Normalcy be damned.

"Hm? What's that?"

Draco down on him, tracing his scar gently with his fingers amusedly, "You are quite passionate."

Harry laughed at this statement and pulled Draco down atop of him. How had that happened? When had Draco taken the lead again?

Still, it didn't matter at this point.

With that, Harry pulled him into a kiss and rolled atop of him. _In the lead at last, _Harry thought triumphantly.

_Though not for long. _He didn't want to think about tomorrow, when the reality would strike him that he had snogged Malfoy.

Little did he know of what other horrors would wait ahead for tomorrow as well.


	6. chapter 6

Chapter 6

* * *

Harry awoke bleary eyed the next morning. He opened his eyes and stared rather dumbly at the roof of the bed curtain. It took him a moment to remember what had actually happened last night. The rather sore state of his lips seemed to confirm the fact that he and Draco Malfoy had snogged. A lot.

The feeling washed over him and, at first, it struck him as rather amusing and other-worldly: he had snogged Draco Malfoy, his enemy and rival in everything since day one. It wasn't Draco that had snogged him, which in all honesty seemed more in character, but _he _had been the pursuer, the lead. He had made the first move!

That damn tango. Perhaps Draco was right; perhaps he didn't have enough passion for it. It certainly seemed that he couldn't control what passion he had.

_But what next? _Harry questioned in a small voice. _What will happen next?_

Would they start dating? Harry buried his face in his pillow both smiling and grimacing. It wouldn't be so bad to go out with Draco, actually…and despite all the prat's annoyances Harry was beginning to feel that Draco was actually a decent guy, despite the little he knew about him. But then, Harry's grimace deepened--what about Ron? And Hermione?

Hermione, Harry figured, would come around eventually. But Ron? He might as well end their friendship right now!

_Oh, God. How am I supposed to do this?_

And then there was the rather _large _issue that Harry would have to come out to the entire school. It was true, Harry admitted darkly to himself, he had been questioning his sexuality for some time now. At first he had been to scared to admit that he might not fancy girls after all…and although Harry had somewhat grown used to the idea he didn't know if he was willing to shout out to the entire world that The-Boy-Who-Lived-Is-A-Pouf!

Harry buried his face deeper into his pillow.

_But maybe…going out with Draco is worth that, _the small voice continued, _Maybe…_

Harry allowed himself to hover over that idea. _If _Draco even _wanted _to go out with Harry was one question, but if so perhaps it _would _be worth it after all. If Harry was so attracted to Draco that he was able to overlook his fears about revealing his sexuality, then perhaps there really was something between the two of them.

"There is only one thing to do…talk to him…" Harry whispered.

"Taawktowhoz?" Ron questioned sleepily, half awake it seemed.

"Professor Flitwick--about my last essay--,"

"Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz," was the only response he got.

Turning on his side Harry drew aside the bed curtains and consulted the calendar. His stomach gave a funny lurch. He had completely forgotten this was a Hogsmeade Weekend.

It seemed fate was on his side, Harry thought decisively.

Reaching out for his pen and ink, Harry quickly sprawled a note on it, and then made his way to the Owlery. He and Draco needed to talk, and it seemed the perfect time when more than half the students would be celebrating the upcoming end of term.

* * *

Draco, when he arrived in the Great Hall that morning, looked nothing like Harry had ever seen. There was a glow--if one could use that word to describe anything related to the Malfoys--about him.

He sat down at the end of the Slytherin table, so as to avoid being trapped between Crabbe and Goyle and his fellow Slytherins. Immediately, his eyes glanced up and found Harry among the sea of scarlet and gold of the Gryffindor table.

And then he grinned.

Harry's mouth fell slightly open, and the piece of bacon fell to the plate as well. Harry flushed, and instantly retrieved it. When he looked up again he saw that Draco was helping himself most cheerfully to a plate of potato-latkes and applesauce.

"What's up, Harry?" Ron asked, looking over his bowl of porridge, "You seem sort of out of it."

Hermione glanced up as well but said nothing.

"Ah--I'm just worried about that Charms Essay. I think I am going to skip Hogsmeade this time so I can stay back and work on some things."

Hermione's eyes narrowed slightly for a second. It was very unlike Harry to pass going to Hogsmeade in lieu of school-work.

Ron seemed to find this just as incredulous, "What? But we were planning on visiting Fred and George's new branch in Hogsmeade!"

Harry grimaced, "Yeah, I know but…"

What could he say to get out of it? Hogsmeade would always be there, and judging by the popularity of Fred and George's store he was sure there was no danger of them going out of business any time soon.

Luckily, Hermione came to the rescue. "Ron, Harry does need to work on his studies you know. You've finished your Charms essay, haven't you? Might as well let him work on his."

Ron still didn't look convinced but just stirred his porridge moodily.

"Surely you don't mind just the _two _of us going, do you Ron?" Hermione asked rather sweetly as she reached for the bacon.

Ron perked up at this comment. Obviously he hadn't thought of that!

A few moments later he remarked, rather chummily, "Alright Harry, go work on the essay. Do you want me to pick up anything for you while we're there?"

Harry deposited a few pieces of gold into his hand along with some instructions.

Ron left for a moment, walking down to the head of the table where a large pitcher of spiced cider had found itself. Harry took the opportunity to give Hermione an appreciative glance and thank her for helping him with Ron.

"Well," Hermione added after accepting his thanks, "I just hope that you will tell me and Ron whatever it is you are _actually _doing."

Harry turned red, but nodded resolutely, "In time. Just give me some time."

Hermione smiled warmly, "Don't worry about it too much. I'm sure you will tell us, when you are ready."

Whatever Harry would have replied to that was cut off with the sound of wings and the flutter of feathers high above. Directing his gaze upward, he saw the usual flock of birds descend upon the Great Hall in a wave of cacophony.

Hedwig hadn't been used on this particular delivery, as she was too noticeable; instead Harry had opted for a nondescript tawny colored owl that had now fluttered down in front of Draco.

Watching him carefully, Harry tried to act as normal as possible as he scooped up another egg on his plate. Draco was opening the letter now, his grey eyes traveling along the page with a bemused expression appearing upon his face.

He looked up, his grey eyes locking with Harry's green. There was the ever slightest of nods as he slipped the parchment into his pocket. Then, he promptly began talking with Crabbe and Goyle and avoided his eyes for the rest of the meal.

Perhaps Draco noticed Hermione watching him as well.

Either way, Harry thought cheerfully as he attacked his eggs with newfound hunger, he and Draco would meet in the Room of Requirement after the students had left for Hogsmeade.

* * *

All the students that planned on going to Hogsmeade had left about half an hour ago. A few fellow seventh years and O.W.L-taking fifth years had stayed behind for extra studying, but, for the most part, the common room was empty. The first years were all out on the lawn having a massive snow-fight.

Harry sat moodily in his chair, thinking about what he was going to say to Draco when they met later on. In all honesty, he didn't quite know what to say. He had a feeling everything would pivot on Draco's behavior.

He grumpily munched some spiced nuts, wondering to himself how this had all happened? How he and Draco had become _more _than dance partners? How they had become more than friends! And worse off was that it was not Draco pursuing _him_, which given the rampant rumors seemed more plausible, but Harry that had taken the first move.

Getting up and dusting off his pants, Harry headed up to his room and flopped down on the bed, willing sleep to come. It did not come and an hour later, feeling decidedly nervous, Harry made his way out of Gryffindor Tower, down the halls and to the Room of Requirement.

He passed the blank expanse of wall three times, thinking intently to himself:

_I want a place where I can meet Draco, where we won't be discovered, where we can just talk about what happened._

_I want a place to meet Draco._

Cracking open an eye, Harry was relieved to see an unobtrusive doorway before him. He turned the knob, expecting to find the long, bare-bones room he was accustomed to--instead what he found was a cozy, yet heavily wall-papered room. The window at the far end was covered in scarlet and two comfortable looking chairs with a small table set in between had appeared.

Harry blushed. He had wanted to talk to Draco, yes, but not in a place that resembled the older cousin of Madame Puddifoot's.

_Too late now, _Harry thought, unbuttoning his shirt a bit--suddenly feeling rather hot.

He had just sat down on the red chair and was hesitantly pouring himself a cup of tea when the door handle turned ever so slowly. Harry tensed. He was always paranoid that someone else would barge on him whenever he used this room.

Draco entered and Harry noticed he looked just about as nervous as Harry felt.

"Hullo," Harry greeted nervously as he poured Draco a cup.

"Hello."

Draco sat down in the chair opposite, eying the room rather distastefully.

"Nice decorating, Potter."

Harry grimaced, "I didn't mean to--it just sort of came out that way."

Draco did not reply, but added a lemon to his steaming cup of tea.

"So…," Harry began rather nervously.

Draco's eyes hovered over the tea cup. He gargled something that Harry didn't catch.

"About…yesterday."

Draco put down the cup, smirking rather wryly, "Don't beat around the bush, do you Potter?"

"No, erm…not usually."

"Well then, continue…" Draco offered in an overly gracious voice.

"I mean, well, I just wanted to talk about it is all."

"Mmhmm…"

"And I--," Harry continued nervously, feeling more anxious than he had felt in Madame Puddifoot's.

"And, let me guess, you want us just to 'forget it ever happened'?" Draco didn't sound upset, but he was staring at Harry with a ferocity reserved only for Quidditch Matches.

"Well, no, actually." Harry replied, getting rather miffed himself, "I wanted to talk about it is all, and know how _you _felt about it."

Draco eyed Harry warily, the smirk gone, only cold cunning remaining.

Harry mumbled to himself, "Because you already know how _I_ feel…"

Draco paused and looked intently at the figure opposite him. Harry, for so long in his life, had been a person he could count on for various things. Harry had been an enemy, a rival, but more than that a person he longed for, a friendship that had escaped through his fingers like sand.

This friendship he had privately yearned for had died on that first day on the train, but the vestiges of hope still remained. As he had grown up along side his rival he had despised and was jealous of him. He longed for him though, at first as a friend…but then later as something more. Something he could call his own and not share with anyone.

His affection for Harry had been growing for a year or so, but it had been culmination of years in the making.

The words Harry had just said seemed unreal, just as the night before. Harry, not him, had been the pursuer. Harry had searched for his lips in the dark of the room. And now it was Harry who confessed his emotions, however confused they seemed to be.

Yet Draco knew a glimmer of hope when he saw one.

"Listen, Harry…" Draco spoke softly.

The figure opposite lifted his head, which had somehow in the course of Draco's thoughts, fallen down against his chest. The green eyes, when he saw them, seemed to glow from the inside.

"Harry?" He whispered.

Draco nodded. The choice _had _been intentional, hadn't it? After all, if Harry was willing to go the distance, to wear his heart on his sleeve then so would Draco.

"I figured it was about time I stopped calling you by your surname."

A pause, a sip of tea, and then, "Alright, _Draco._"

The two grinned at each other over the table, the steam rising between the two.

"As far as last night goes…," Draco mused, playing with the spilled sugar crystals, his grey eyes glancing up at Harry every now and then. "If I didn't want to, I wouldn't have let you…"

Harry did not respond but kept his gaze steady with Draco. The grey eyes were unreadable in the light of the room. He could have sworn he saw a flicker of emotion, but it could have been a trick of the light.

"So, you didn't mind it then?" Harry asked, his grin turning sheepish. "I mean…in the end…"

Draco stood up suddenly and tucked the chair in and stretched so that Harry could see a glimpse of bare skin beneath his vest. It seemed that he was taunting him, however subtly.

"In all honesty, Harry, I'm glad you did it."

That was rather odd. "Why?"

"Well, I would have been more than happy to have snogged you a few lessons ago…but I figured if you did it would freak you out; like the thought of having to see Professor Trelawney in her knickers."

The was a pregnant pause, then an echo of laughter filled the classroom, and it didn't stop for several long moments. By the time it faded away, Harry was rubbing his tear-rimmed eyes. After he had given himself time to digest the information, Harry realized that Draco had been quite right. If Draco had been the one to 'put the moves on him' how _would _he have reacted? No doubt he would have punched Draco and never wanted to see him again.

Draco wasn't a Slytherin for no reason. Cunning, after all.

"So you waited?" Harry asked at length.

"Well, yes…I figured you would come around or you wouldn't. Either way, I still wanted to dance with--," Draco cut off, and turned towards the window suddenly rather flushed. It seemed as though he had given something away, and Harry took a moment to ponder over what it was. At last, he realized t.

"So, you _wanted _to dance with me, then? Even with all the complaining?"

"Yes, well…," Draco mumbled rather distractedly, "I needed the exercise, you know…"

"I'm sure."

A pause, then an exasperated sigh.

"So, I wanted to dance with you. When you are actually paying attention to what you are doing you are really on form. Yes--there--I said it. You are a good dancer."

Harry jumped to his feet and followed Draco, not allowing him to get away. "Ah-Ha!"

"Oh, sod off." Draco grumbled, grabbing his cup of tea and draining it in a gulp. Whatever suave quality he had intended, that certainly wasn't it, for the still hot tea scalded him and he erupted into a cacophony of coughs and profanity.

Harry laughed and Draco gave him a dirty scowl. Harry continued to laugh, tears bursting forth again.

"Oh shut up!" Draco snarled as he rushed forward, dropping the tea-cup onto the table and slamming Harry against the nearby wall.

Whatever wind was left in Harry left as soon as he landed on the wall. He barely had time to register anything when he felt the (quite literally) hot lips of Draco planted firmly over his mouth.

Harry didn't resist. He melted into Draco's tea-stained shirt and ran his hands along his body and up onto his scalp. His mouth tasted like Earl Grey and Harry found that oddly arousing. He closed his eyes, and plunged deeper into the flavored darkness.

Draco, on the other hand, was quite content to continue his dominant position that had been robbed from him the last time. Oh, Harry had been brilliant, to be sure--_surprisingly brilliant. _But Draco liked being in control, he liked feeling Harry tremble and moan beneath his touch. He liked sucking on his lower lip, allowing their tongues to probe deeper and deeper.

Draco broke away, his cheeks flushed and his hair falling into his face, "I told you to shut up." he said with a lazy smirk.

Harry said nothing, his own eyes tracing the contours of the face he had hated for the past six years.

"Listen: I don't know what this is about or where it will lead to…" Harry trailed off, finding a lump rising in his throat, "But I rather fan--,"

Harry's declaration of adoration was cut short with the curt voice of the Deputy Headmistress, McGonagall commanding, "All students report back to their common rooms immediately. I repeat: All students report back to their common rooms _immediately_."

Harry and Draco exchanged looks. Obviously something had happened.

Draco smashed Harry back against the wall giving him a memorable farewell kiss. When he pulled away, he murmured, "We'll talk details over later."

He nodded. The two left the room a few moments later, leaving separately and spacing their departure out by a few minutes. When Harry arrived in the Common Room he realized what had gone so terribly wrong…

* * *

Harry rushed along the halls, wondering. What had happened that would cause McGonagall to use the loud speaker system? In all his time at Hogwarts, Harry had only heard the loudspeaker used once before during his second year. What could be worse than a giant Basilisk slithering through the school petrifying students?

And then it struck him so hard that he stopped dead in his tracks: Voldemort?

His steps quickened, and by the time he reached Gryffindor Tower he was sprinting. He nearly tumbled through the portrait hole gasping, "What happened?"

The crowd of fellow Gryffindors stood in the Common Room, their faces sullen. He glanced from face to face, feverishly, willing to find Ron and Hermione. A few seconds later, someone burst through the crowd. The only thing he saw was a mass of bushy hair running towards him, and, "Oh, Harry!"

She had lunged at him, flinging her arms around him, crying, "Where were you? We thought--We thought--," She gulped, unable to finish her sentence.

Neville, who looked rather wind-blown and heated himself, stepped forward, "We thought you might have decided to come down to Hogsmeade after all, and…"

He trailed off, looking at his feet.

Harry gulped, and the only thing he could think to say was, "Where's Ron?"

Hermione started gulping again. "H-He's in the hospital wing! He was attacked! Oh, Harry! It was awful!" Fresh tears sprung from her eyes as she clung to Harry's frame, unable to continue.

How could things have been so wonderful five minutes ago, and now this?

"A bunch of other students were attacked, too," Neville continued, rubbing his nose.

Harry stared at the group of students, wondering what he could say. How did it happen? Had there been Death Eaters in Hogsmeade? But wasn't the Ministry on patrol there?

The portrait burst open and McGonagall strode in looking very pale and upset. It took her a moment to compose herself, but when she did at last speak her voice was somehow strong and resilient, "Students," she began, "There has been an attack on Hogsmeade."

The few students who hadn't gone down to the village exchanged nervous glances. Harry just swallowed nervously, wishing he could just go up and visit Ron in the Hospital Wing.

"It has been confirmed that a total of eight Death Eaters attacked the village and visiting students. Several have been injured…most of them should recover…"

She paused there, looking at a few students. It seemed that she was just as surprised by these attacks as all the other students. Hogwarts was the safest place for Wizards, but the village next door was a risk?

Harry continued to pat Hermione's hair almost absently as thoughts quickly poured through his head like.

"None of the Death Eaters have been caught…but we have been assured by the Ministry that all available Aurors are working on it…"

These words of comfort meant nothing to Harry. Ron was hurt, and more than likely the Death Eaters would have been after him. Perhaps he should have just gone to Hogsmeade--perhaps less people would have been involved.

McGonagall had been saying something that Harry hadn't quite caught, but the next moment she was looking at Hermione and him.

"You may go see Mr. Weasley, if you like."

An immense feeling of relief flooded through his body. Not needing to be told twice he quickly untangled himself from Hermione and stole out of the common room, running back down the long halls in the direction he had come, Hermione on his heels. Ron would be alright, surely? After all, he had survived those strange brains, hadn't he?

Somehow that thought was not as comforting as it should have been.

* * *

The two arrived in the Hospital Wing a few moments later, breathless from the run. Hermione was still in tears but she seemed somewhat more stable now that she knew Harry was alive and well. Still, Harry couldn't help but notice the few side long glances she gave him--much like she had done this morning in the dining hall when Draco received his owl.

Madame Pomfrey was found tending a young Ravenclaw boy who had been attacked with some unknown spell which caused his head to have turned into a giant squid. Pomfrey at the moment was trying to aid him by making sure he had a healthy supply of water nearby.

She turned around a few moments later, unsurprised to see the two of them waiting there expectantly.

"Where's Ron?" Hermione asked frantically, squeezing Harry's arm until it began to go numb.

"I've put him in a stasis, dear." She replied rather offhandedly, her tired eyes looking around the room. All the beds were filled with students; all had some sickness or abnormality. "He is in the last bed on the left. I'll be over shortly; I just have to take care of a few more patients."

There was a loud popping sound, and then a painful scream. She didn't say anything else, but hurried off in a flutter of white and grey.

Harry and Hermione hurried over to the bedside, Hermione casting open the curtain and gazing down at Ron. Unlike the other patients in the Hospital Wing which were sporting strange growths or looked like they had swallowed the entire contents of a Skiving Snackbox, Ron looked relatively normal. He was strangely pale with a yellowish tinge to his skin and he was covered by a thin layer of glistening sweat, but other than that, he _looked_ fine...

Harry looked away immediately, a feeling of guilt rising steadily in his throat.

"Where's Ginny? Shouldn't she be here?"

Hermione, her eyes still locked onto Ron's sickly face, whispered, "She was immediately taken to St. Mungo's."

The feeling of guilt continued to grow. How could all this have happened in such a short amount of time? No doubt the attack had been planned for months…

Harry glanced back down at Ron and the two continued to stare helplessly at his body. Harry had seen Ron hurt and injured before, but nothing like this. Physically, there was nothing wrong with him, just a sickly color and sheen of sweat. Yet it was no secret that the worst kinds of curses and spells left no physical damage, it was inside the body, away from prying eyes that they wreaked their destruction.

Pomfrey appeared a few moments later and by that time Hermione had lost whatever embarrassment she had and was sitting sadly on the bed, cradling Ron's hand in her lap. She continued to cry silently.

It seemed to Harry that everyone was acting as though Ron was dead... He lay before them breathing and looking, for all intense and purposes, no worse than he had when he barfed up slugs back in second year.

"What's wrong with him?" Harry asked, steering his eyes away from the body and glaring at Madame Pomfrey accusatorily, as if she had done this to his best friend.

She took a moment t reply, as though choosing her words with extreme caution.

"The spell caused damage to his insides…" She paused again, looking at Ron's body as though trying to access even more what had happened, "It is very similar to the spell Ms. Granger was subjected to last summer."

Harry suddenly felt on top of the world, "So he'll be okay then? In a couple of days?"

Pomfrey nodded, "Yes…he should be. However..." she paused, pursing her lips together, "the spell was more powerful than the one I previously treated. Curing the actual spell should be relatively simple…but it all depends on how his body reacts to the damage. It might be touch and go for a while."

Harry repeated again, "So, he'll be okay?"

Pomfrey nodded very slowly, "In a manner of speaking, he should be fully recovered in a week or so. I've ordered some special Potions from St. Mungo's for this case."

Hermione, if she had been listening, did not say anything. She continued to stare down at the fallen form and, although her tears had stopped, she looked none better.

Pomfrey left a few moments later, after checking Ron's vitals.

The two students were left alone and the feeling of guilt was soon replaced by a deep sense of awkwardness. Harry busied himself a few moments as he went and found a chair for him to sit on; Hermione seemed quite content with the bed.

It was silent for some time; the two just stared dazedly at Ron's face, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Harry wondered when the other Weasley's were going to show up--this obvious display of affection from Hermione was in many ways heartwarming, yet something that he did not want to be present for.

His gaze shifted and he began to stare out the windows and the light that began to gradually change from midday to deep afternoon. It was then, probably around four that Hermione at last woke herself from her stupor.

She looked at Harry, her eyes dry now, but a slight quiver still apparent in her lip.

"Are _you _okay, Hermione?" Harry asked at length.

She nodded.

"What exactly happened out there? How did Ron get so badly hurt?"

She did not answer immediately and it seemed as though she was replaying the events in her head.

"We had just left the Three Broomsticks and Ron got it into his head that he wanted to take a visit to the Shrieking Shack."

"Why did he want to go there?"

"Well…," Hermione continued rather nervously after a pause, "The last time we were there….it was just the two of us, as _you _couldn't leave the castle. Remember, back in third year? I think…he wanted to go there again...with me...alone."

Harry blushed, that feeling awkwardness returning. He hoped she would continue with the story quickly.

"Anyways, we were just standing there…"

Harry got the feeling she wasn't telling the entire truth.

"_Just _standing?" Harry raised an eyebrow.

Hermione blushed and smiled slightly to herself, "Well, actually…we sort of wanted to tell you together, but as Ron might not be awake any time soon…"

She paused, and Harry knew she was about to say something very important.

"But Ron asked if we could go steady. And I said yes."

Harry wasn't surprised by this. Ron and Hermione had liked each other since second year, and maybe since the end of first. _Finally. _

"Congratulations."

"Thanks. Are you okay with it?"

"'Course, everyone's been waiting for you two to get together for ages."

Hermione flushed but said nothing. There was that awkward silence again, and Harry wished fervently he was back in the Room of Requirements.

Hermione, it seemed, had other things on her mind as well, but this time it did not seem to be Ron. She kept on giving him knowing glances as though she were waiting for _Harry _to say something important in turn.

_Well, _Harry thought, _If she expects me to say that I've snogged Draco Malfoy she is in no such luck._

"Where were you, Harry?" Hermione questioned at last, leaning against the bed a little more casually.

"Uhm…"

"Because I _thought _you would have been working on your Charms Essay, like you _said _you would."

"Oh…well…yes…erm…"

"You weren't in the library. Colin Creevy was in there too, _also _working on an essay near the Charms section."

Hermione certainly dotted her i's and crossed her t's, didn't she?

"Uh…Well, actually, I fancied a walk. I was on my way down to Hagrid's when the loudspeaker went off."

Hermione's eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

"Oh, really? That's funny because Hagrid was down in the Three Broomsticks having a drink with Professor Sprout and talking about how the Mandrakes were going this year."

"Oh." Harry said rather dejectedly, "Well, that would explain why his light wasn't on."

"Indeed. Awfully light clothing for taking a walk out in the snow?" Hermione continued, trying to sound casual.

"Yes, well…I was rather overheated. You know, from all that studying."

"I never knew you studied so hard, Harry."

Harry did not reply. He had a sick feeling he was going to have to tell Hermione everything. Much to his great relief the doors behind them suddenly burst open and they heard the voice of Molly Weasley echo off the marble walls.

"Ron!"

"Mum, sssh!" A voice cautioned behind her.

Turning round, Harry and Hermione saw he figures of Molly and Bill Weasley hurriedly making their way towards them.

"Is he alright?!" Molly questioned again, disregarding her son's plea to lower her voice.

"He's fine, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione answered at once, jumping to her feet and brushing out her skirt in one motion. She looked very hot and flustered.

"What happened out there?" Bill asked.

Molly filled the spot Hermione had just vacated, looking up at Hermione and down at her son.

"Well," Hermione began again, realizing she had never finished telling Harry what exactly happened that afternoon, "Ron and I were at the Shrieking Shack, we had been taking a walk around Hogsmeade because the snow made everything look so picturesque. Then we heard a rustle in the bushes, but thought it was just an animal."

Molly was now looking down at her son, attentively.

"The next thing we knew, four Death Eaters were walking out of the woods towards Hogsmeade. They were discussing something angrily and we didn't hear much. We tried to sneak away, but the next thing we knew, they had spotted us! We held off as best as we could--I guess we had some good experience after what happened last year at the Ministry. Still, Ron was the first one hit. I knew I couldn't hold off four Death Eaters by myself so I ran as fast as I could to Hogsmeade. I ran straight into the Three Broomsticks and told everyone there."

With all the teachers at Hogsmeade enjoying the Yule Tide Cheer (including Firewhiskey), they were soon able to alert the general public and wage an attack on the Death Eaters whose plan was spoiled.

Hermione mentioned only briefly the other causalities. It seemed that Ginny had been attacked outside of Zonko's by no less than two Death Eaters.

"Amazing that she only got hurt with the Dehydrating Curse," Bill murmured, apparently having come directly from St. Mungo's along with Mrs. Weasley.

"She's fine." Mrs. Weasley added, taking out her handkerchief and blowing in it very strongly, "They just need to keep on giving her fresh water until they can figure out the cure."

Hermione and Harry nodded mutely. It didn't surprise Harry that it had taken two Death Eaters to finish off Ginny--since last year she had grown quite a bit and become quite the hexer. He did, however, feel bad for not inquiring into what was wrong with her earlier.

"Well…," Hermione said softly, "We'll leave you three alone for now. It's nearly time for supper, so we'll go down and have a bite to eat. Would you like us to bring you something?"

Mrs. Weasley sniffed, "No thank you, dears. I've got chicken and dumplings on the stove at home."

Bill suppressed a laugh, then added more seriously, "It's a good thing he has you two here by him. We'll be checking on him, don't you worry, but it's nice to know that there is someone close by."

Hermione looked as though she would start crying again. Harry just looked at his feet, feeling guilty about the whole affair.

Surely, if he had been in Hogsmeade perhaps not so many students would have been injured.

The two left the Weasleys and quietly walked down the hallway, neither talking.

* * *

They arrived at the Great Hall which was sufficiently empty of students from several houses. Worry was etched along their faces, and Hermione was forced by quite a few students to repeat the happenings in Hogsmeade.

The two were nearly through their Shepherd's Pie when an unexpected visitor arrived in a flurry of lime green and pinstripe. Cornelius Fudge had heard the news about Hogsmeade and decided to speak to Dumbledore directly, it seemed.

Dumbledore had just tucked into his bread budding with a look of satisfaction when the green-bowler-hated man arrived.

"Dumbledore!" he bellowed without any regard that the entire school was watching him.

The Headmaster looked up, slightly disappointed as he knew he would not be finishing his pudding any time soon.

"I've just had word!" he panted, "Hogsmeade! Attacked?!"

Dumbledore nodded quietly, pushing the bowl away, "It would appear that way, Cornelius."

"And students attacked? The Ministry cannot afford these attacks now--especially here. If this continues Hogswarts will have to be closed!"

At this, Dumbledore's usually sparkling blue eyes turned cold and he stood up immediately.

"Now, now…let us go talk about this in my office over a nice spot of sherry. I think I could use one myself."

The two left a few moments later, but in their wake a sea of worried whispers arose.


	7. chapter 7

Chapter 7

* * *

Harry and Hermione looked at each other, both looking as worried as the other felt. They quickly finished their dinner and hurried up to the Hospital Wing so they could discuss the latest news.

_They couldn't really close Hogwarts, could they?_ Harry wondered frantically as they ran upstairs.

The two stopped outside the Hospital Wing to catch their breath before entering. Harry reached for the door handle as Hermione flattened her skirt. "They can't close Hogwarts, can they?" Harry asked Hermione, gripping the door knob tightly.

"I don't know, but we can worry about that later. I just want to go and check on Ron right now, okay?" Hermione replied quietly.

Harry nodded as he opened the door. The two walked down the aisle of beds, neither looking at the disarray of bodies around the room.

Molly and Bill looked up at their arrival. They didn't look as worn out as earlier, which was good news. Molly smiled at the two of them. She was still sitting on the bed, though Ron's hand was no longer in hers. She glanced behind to see if anyone else was listening then whispered to the pair, "Professor Dumbledore just came by. He said that it might be best if you all went to Grimmauld Place for the Winter Holidays. You too, Hermione, dear. If it's alright with your parents, of course. We think it would be safest."

Harry nodded, fine with that plan. Hermione also nodded, though somewhat hesitant. "Alright. I'll owl my parents this evening and ask their permission."

Molly nodded. She pushed Ron's bangs from off his forehead then stood rather abruptly. "Well, we're going to be off. We'll probably see you two in the morning. Get some sleep, now won't you?"

As both promised to try and get some sleep, Bill stood from the chair Harry had brought over earlier. "Bye, guys. See ya." he said, moving toward the doorway. Harry and Hermione said goodbyeto his, then were enveloped in a giant hug.

Mrs. Weasley sniffled loudly. "I am so glad the two of you weren't hurt! And that none of you were seriously injured!" She sniffled again as Harry and Hermione turned red.

"Come on, Mom," Bill said with a wry smile. "We have to go see Ginny again."

Molly nodded and pulled back from the hug, her handkerchief pressed to her mouth. "Right. See you tomorrow." She hurried after Bill, still sniffling.

The door to the Hospital Wing closed and the friends looked at each other. Harry smiled a little as he sat back down on the chair. Hermione perched on the bed, her hand sliding into Ron's as surreptitiously as she could manage.

The two sat in silence. Madame Pomfrey bustled over sometime later. She cast some spells on Ron and made approving noises. With a quick glance at the two of them, she asked quietly, "Shall I bring blankets for the two of you?"

Hermione nodded and tore her eyes from Ron to look pleading at the nurse. "Please."

If Madame Pomfrey was going to argue, something in Hermione's eyes or voice changed her mind. She nodded quietly and walked away. Returning several minutes later with two extra blankets and pillows, the nurse set them at the foot of Ron's bed. She gave the trio a sad look before returning to her office.

They stayed quiet for a while longer before Harry finally broke the silence. "We should go get pajamas and a change of clothes, Hermione."

She looked stricken. "I'll be fine, Harry."

"Besides," he continued "you still need to write that owl to your folks. You can borrow Hedwig, if you like... Come on, we won't take that long. Ron'll be fine."

Hermione sighed and finally acquiesced, slowly standing and setting Ron's hand down.

The pair traveled up to the Gryffindor dormitory in silence. Harry couldn't keep his mind off of his meeting earlier with Draco. That seemed like days away, yet was only hours ago. He felt torn and at odds with himself. Part of him wished that he had gone with Ron to Hogsmeade, that maybe he could have made a difference and Ron would be fine. Another part of him wished that he had had more time with Draco, that they could have talked more. It seemed like they had said a lot, yet they really had not said much at all.

The pair walked into the Common Room which was now thankfully deserted. Harry made directly for his dorms and Hermione did so as well. It only took him a few moments to get his clothes in order, which included a change of clothes, pajamas and a few pieces of homework that he might be able to finish sometime that evening, though Harry had a feeling that wouldn't be happening. The day had been highly emotional on a number of levels and all he really wanted to do was sleep.

Hermione was not down in the Common Room when he came back and he waited for a few moments wondering if she was still writing the letter. Then he supposed she might have gone ahead without him--she was afterall highly worried about Ron and he supposed that she didn't want to be separated from his side for any long period of time.

He left a few moments later and wandered down the halls. It was not yet after hours and there were a few students milling about the halls. Harry did not speak to them--he was not much in the mood for talking.

The chairs were still by the bed when he arrived and the blankets there as well, though Hermione was not. He sat down and continued his habit of staring out the window, letting his mind wander.

He was sure Ron would be alright in the end. Sad as it was to say, if Ron hadn't died yet from all the things they had been through together, then he wasn't going to die now, from this stupid spell. There was _undoubtedly _a way to cure him. The question was all matter of time.

Christmas Break would soon be upon them in a few days. It seemed his Christmas like the year before would be spent at Grimmwauld Place. It would be odd returning to that cold, unwelcoming house now that Sirius wasn't there to light it up.

Indeed, the Holidays were not something Harry was looking forward to. He had a feeling that, despite Christmas, most everyone besides Ron and Hermione (and perhaps Fred and George) would be busy with The Order. Although Fred and George were technically part of the elite group, they were extremely busy over the holiday season with their shop.

"Harry?" Hermione questioned a half an hour later, "There you are."

"What took you?"

"Oh. I ended up writing a bit more in the letter than I thought I would."

"Ah."

"Did you see the notice?" She asked.

Harry looked up, a feeling of dread in his stomach.

"Is Hogwarts closing?"

"No, but the dance is off."

Harry snorted. He wasn't surprised. The Ministry wouldn't allow a dance to take place if twenty or so students from Hogwarts had been attacked by Death Eaters in the town over.

"Oh, well... I hadn't asked anyone to the dance anyways," Harry grumbled, propping his feet up.

"You danced really well," Hermione continued, blushing slightly, "I really never knew you were into dancing so much!"

_Perhaps not dancing so much as my partner_, Harry thought to himself.

"I got help." Was all he allowed himself to say.

A minute later in brooding silence between the two, Ron stirred for a moment croaking out something indistinguishable. Hermione jumped up at once anxious that Ron regain consciousness.

Harry knew it wouldn't be until the next day at least that Ron would perk up. After all, Hermione had been out for a day or so when she was hit with the same spell.

And so, he allowed his thoughts to wander deeper and deeper--this was, Harry had learned, not something good for him to do. The more he thought the more depressed and worried he became. The more he wondered how things would have gone today should he have decided to go to Hogsmeade. He knew that his presence wouldn't have been much help--he wasn't a cracking witch like Hermione and his one strength seemed to be Defense Against the Dark Arts. Sure, it would have come in handy, but only so much.

He couldn't have stopped the events which occurred today, but he knew that somehow they were related to him. Perhaps one desperate, frantic stab by Voldemort to try to kill him before he graduated.

His thoughts took a different turn.

Draco.

What _would _have happened if the two of them hadn't been interrupted? He felt guilty for even thinking such a thought, but there it was. He had never realized how much he desired intimacy until the chances of it were snatched away from him. Was it, he rationalized, just wanting to snog? Or did he actually care about Draco?

Draco was part of the Order, or so it was believed. He had extended the olive branch to Dumbledore at the end of fifth year. Perhaps he had seen what a botchery Voldemort had made of it all, or perhaps he had realized the foolishness of hating Muggles and Mudbloods. In the end, the two were unavoidable.

Yet from what Harry had glimpsed on and off the dance floor he had a feeling that despite Draco's harsh exterior there was more that lay beneath the surface.

If only the two hadn't been interrupted! Harry could have seen where the two 'stood'--if anything, save a few snogs, were to come out of this!

"Harry, are you alright?"

"Hm? What? Yes, of course!"

"Oh... You were breathing rather heavily."

"Oh…I--I just was thinking about that 'T' I received on the Potions essay. I hate Snape."

Hermione didn't look convinced, but then again it was getting harder and harder to convince her these days.

Eventually, sleep found Harry. It was not a pleasant sleep. It was filled with odd dreams with no exact shape, sound, or people: just colors. When he awoke early the next morning he had a crick in his neck and his butt was sore.

All that meant nothing to him when he saw his best friend looking up at him, grinning.

"Morning, 'arry."

"Morning, Ron."

* * *

As it turned out, Ron made a complete recovery by the time Winter Holidays had started. All the Weasleys and Hermione had been most pleased, glad they could all enjoy the Christmas Holidays together. His speedy recovery was due in part to the advances in Wizarding Medicine that had been made in the past six months. Ginny, although released out of St. Mungo's, had to keep on drinking at least three liters of water a day, just incase.

Despite Ron's full recovery, Harry had not been able to have a moment to himself since the Hogsmeade incident. What with the few remaining term-end tests, packing, and being around Ron for morale support he hadn't had any time to spare.

Normally, Harry wouldn't have minded keeping busy--but keeping as busy as he was meant that he had no time to dance or talk with Draco. In fact, the two had not spoken at all since their last meeting in the Room of Requirement.

At first, Draco had tried to catch Harry's eye over meals and in the halls, but with the passage of time, those glances grew fewer and fewer.

"You okay, Harry?" Hermione questioned cheerily as she brought down her luggage to the Common Room, "You are awfully quiet."

Harry supposed he had been rather sullen as of late. Having an unresolved issue hanging over one's head certainly didn't help the situation.

"Yeah, I guess it is just the holidays."

"You get a little down around them?" Hermione asked.

Harry nodded. Better let Hermione think what she wanted.

"That's okay, everyone gets a little blue, I'm sure. But we'll have a wonderful time this Christmas!"

Harry nodded and smiled, doing his best to forget Draco for now. There would be no good moping about him, since the two didn't exactly communicate via owl. Yes, for two weeks it was best to put whatever had started on hold.

Little did he know how much that idea would not work out.

A few moments later Ron came jumping down the stairs grinning, "All ready, then?"

"Yep!" Harry called, pulling his scarf tighter about his throat.

* * *

The platform at the station in Hogsmeade was a buzz with students and suitcases. Even Hagrid was having a problem keeping the chaos down to a din.

"Now, now!" he called, waving a lantern that looked like a large fairy among the falling snow.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood a little way off, warming their hands with the bottle of fire they had used in previous years. The three of them were all quite content, chatting about the outrageous stunt Peeves had pulled on the first years on their way down to the station, as well as plans for Christmas break. Hermione would be spending the first part with her family, which seemed only logical. She would come for Christmas supper and a few days before New Years. Other than that, it would just be Harry and Ron with the run of the house.

Hermione had just started to wax on about Elf Rights and Ron and Harry's eyes started to take a familiar, glazed, sheen when Malfoy and his small entourage walked by. They too seemed to be in a flurry of conversation, which, Harry noted triumphantly--Draco was not participating in. In fact he seemed absolutely bored.

The group of Slytherins stopped a few feet away and continued talking as they waited in line for the train.

"Ooooh, Draco! I'm so excited for your New Year Party!"

Draco did not reply, but instead brushed a snow flake off his eyelashes.

"They are supposed to be wonderful! Isn't being legal wonderful? At last I can practice magic on my bratty little brother."

The others snorted. Draco was looking up the railroad tracks to see if the train would be pulling in any time soon.

"What should I wear? Dress robes, I know--but I'm going to buy a new pair just for this! What color do you think would suite me?" Pansy continued, trying to get Draco to respond to her.

"Chartreuse." Draco sighed lamely, checking his watch.

Pansy blinked and brushed the comment aside, "It will be such a gala affair. _Pureblood _Wizards _always _throw the best events!"

Draco yawned.

Pansy, seemingly desperate to get Draco to interact with her somehow and glanced around the platform anxiously. Her eyes narrowed a second later--she had spotted Ron Weasley and company, there was no better target.

"--Not that Weasley would ever go to a PureBlood Ball!"

Ron looked over his shoulder, pretending to just now have noticed their presence. Harry, however, noted Ron's ears had already turned red a few moments before.

"What makes you think I would _want _to go to one of your stupid balls?" Ron snarled, brushing snow off his cloak.

"You say that, Weasley, but you know you would love to go if you could just afford it. Going to a Masquerade is expensive you know--new dress robes, masks--your family would probably go bankrupt just thinking about it." Her high-pitched giggle followed that, making Harry cringe.

Ron opened his mouth to say something, but then a large and loud steam whistle blew. The Hogwarts Express had arrived at last, and none too soon. Harry had a feeling he was going to have to hold Ron back if things had continued. And, Harry thought as he pushed Ron forward onto the train, his friend was fresh out of the hospital wing and in no condition to take on Crabbe and Goyle.

As they boarded the train, Pansy continued, "If you manage to scrape up enough gold, Weasley, you are more than welcome to come--right Draco?"

Draco yawned again. Then, casting a half a glance to Ron he replied, "Why not? I'm sure it would prove amusing."

At this, he caught Harry's eyes before disappearing inside the train.

* * *

It was a week since the incident on the platform. Harry had done his best to keep it from his mind--along with all other thoughts of Draco. They did have an annoying habit of popping up when he slept.

Harry remembered little about Christmas Eve. It was a swirl of tinsel and holly and ribbons. Molly had a tree in the living room and insisted that he and Ron decorate it.

Christmas had been a fun affair--as fun as Christmas in his dead Godfather's house _could _be. Harry woke to a pile of presents at the foot of his bed, just like Hogwarts. He had gotten a book from Hermione (_101 Spells for the Wizard About to Start a Duel_), a new sweater from Mrs. Weasley (deep grey) and a dozen mincemeat pies. The twins gave him a box of their latest products, and Ron gave him a new scarf and a bunch of candy

"Hermione helped me pick it out," he said, his cheeks matching his new maroon sweater.

Lupin, Moody, and Tonks had all stopped by to visit during the day. Lupin had brought delicious dessert plates over--treacle tarts, bread pudding, plum pudding, and a humongous triple-layer German chocolate cake. Mrs. Weasley insisted they wait until after supper before enjoying Lupin's gifts.

Tonks had claimed she hadn't the time to get them anything, but slipped a flask of Firewhiskey into Harry and Ron's hands when Molly wasn't looking.

Moody also visited, though not for long. He, however, did have presents for he and Ron. Ron got a Dark Arts Detector, and Harry got another book (_The Dark Arts Outsmarted_).

Hermione showed up for supper and stayed for dessert. The three didn't have much time to themselves to talk about anything, but Hermione promised that she would be back soon.

And then there hadn't been anything to do. There were people coming and going all the time, but no one would tell either he or Ron anything. The twins weren't very active because the Christmas season was busy for them, but they would come by a couple times anyway.

Today, Harry had pulled out his homework and had been trudging through it. Ron was fiddling with his Dark Arts Detector on the bed.

"Arg!"

Harry turned around in his desk chair and looked at Ron. "What?"

Ron sighed heavily and tossed the Dark Arts Detector on his pillow. "I'm so bored! And I hear people downstairs and I want to know what's going on, but if I go down there they'll all stop talking and move into the back room, so it's no use. I'm of age, I want to help! I want to be a part of the Order, but Mum won't even hear it!"

Harry sighed. "I know, mate. I feel the same way. It's gonna be me who fights him, but I don't get to know what they're talking about. And it's my house, too. But if I bring up joining they all change the subject and make an excuse to leave and talk in a different room, so now they just avoid me so they can skip the awkward-ness."

Ron sighed and flopped back onto the bed.

Harry nodded and turned back to his homework, what concentration he had was now broken.

"If only we could prove to them that we could be a part of them, you know?"

"Prove it? Ron, we've stopped Voldemort"-- Ron shuddered at the name-- "half a dozen times already! If that's not proof, what is?"

Ron sighed. He knew Harry had a point, but at the moment he wasn't thinking rationally.

"But that isn't enough for them, is it? I mean, what do they want us to do--infiltrate a Death Eater house and get him thrown into Azkaban?"

Harry snorted, causing a smudge on the parchment, "If we did that there is no way they could deny us The Order."

Ron eye's gleamed at that, "You think so? You think if we caught one of the Death Eaters they would let us in?"

Harry scoffed, looking at Ron in earnest now, "Are you serious? Are you actually talking seriously?"

"Sure, why not? I mean--hey, we've got time before the holidays end. Plus, we can apparate now--and you know about a million spells that will help us against the Dark Arts, and Hermione knows just about everything else and I--I'm very useful."

Harry snorted again, "Useful? Ron, you're still recovering from the Hogsmeade attack, you can only be so useful! Ron, come off it. We can't go bring down a Death Eater. We haven't even graduated!"

It felt weird that Harry was, for once, telling Ron not to do anything rash.

Ron did not stop, though. In fact, his eyes had taken quite a possessed gleam as though he was plotting something very complex. Harry decided it was best not to goad him on and returned to his work, hoping that Ron's fervor would fizzle out.

That was not the case, and a few moments later Ron jumped up from his seat--grabbing his forehead and shouting, "Of _course!"_

"Of course _what?"_

"Lucius Malfoy!"

"What about him?"

"His party, remember? His New Year Party!"

"So, what about it?" Harry paused then guffawed, "You're not _actually _considering going are you?"

Ron looked rather affronted, "Why not, I _am _pureblood."

"And have you forgotten that Lucius Malfoy is _evil?!"_

"Don't forget his son." Ron added smartly.

"Dra-_Malfoy _is with the Order now, or whatever. If Dumbledore trusts him we have to."

"Well, whatever. The point is Lucius Malfoy _is _a Death Eater, right? And we have a standing invitation to his party!"

"You do." Harry snipped.

"_We _do. I can bring _guests _can't I?"

"_Guests? _As in more than one guest?"

"Of course, Hermione and you."

"And it doesn't occur to you that the place will be _swarming _with _Death Eaters_?"

"Yeah, well, it's a Masquerade! Its perfect, isn't it? We go in costumes--,"

"--Costumes which we don't have."

"--And then try to dig up some dirt on Malfoy…though I suppose one has got to keep guard, hadn't they."

Harry murmured something. Ron was off his rocker.

_Then again, _his mind whispered, _If you go to the party there is a chance you could talk to Draco…_

That _was _true.

"Fine." Harry said softly, hoping he wouldn't give himself away in the process, "We can go, dig up dirt on Malfoy--whatever. But, just keep in mind that when Hermione asks _whose _idea this was--remember it was _yours. _And when we get ourselves into a jam, just remember you thought of this all by yourself."

Ron shrugged, "It's worth the price. If we don't take action like adults, then we won't be treated as adults."

Harry had a feeling that adults wouldn't go barging in on a Death Eater soiree, but he didn't say as much.

"Well, we've got to get some clothes." Harry sighed, closing his book, "_Nice _clothes that is."

"Oh, no worries, Hermione can Transfigure them."

Harry rolled his eyes.

"So you have this all worked out then?"

"Not _all _worked out, but _enough _worked out. The rest is what best friend's are for, right?"

Harry grumbled something under his breath. Of course he would help Ron! After all, Ron had followed _him _on all of _his _hair-brained schemes before, hadn't he?

"Alright, well…we need to plan this better." Harry said.

As Harry said those words he realized he was going to the home of Draco Malfoy to attempt to destroy his father. The thought had never been so adventurous and so risky before.

"To The Order," Harry said, raising his newly acquired flask. Ron saluted him and the two tipped up their flasks of _Firewhiskey._


	8. chapter 8

Chapter 8

* * *

When Ron and Harry told Hermione of their plans for New Years, at first she was flabbergasted. Then, once she actually realized the two had worked out a seemingly complex plan for that evening, she burst out.

"You can't be serious!"

Ron, who seemed keener on the plan now than ever, just tried to convince her: Yes, they were _seriously _thinking of infiltrating the Malfoy Manor come New Years Eve.

Hermione, at this point, had to have a very strong cup of tea. The fact that this idea (for the most part) was implemented by Ron seemed to shake her up more than Harry's wild ideas ever had. While she sipped the very hot and very sweet tea she listened to their "Brilliant plan."

Hermione had to admit they had it all worked out for the most part. From the entrance, costumes, spells they should use to change their appearances (glamours and lots of transfigurations), each of their roles at the party, who was to keep guard (Harry, for once, oddly—though he _had _volunteered at the offer), and their escape.

After hearing this prolonged ramble told in the relative security of the boys' bedroom, Hermione placed her cup down, a stern look on her face.

"Obviously, there is no convincing you to do otherwise, as you two have been plotting this out for a while."

Ron looked smug at this. Harry just looked rather embarrassed. He was quite keen to go visit Draco over the holidays but somehow he had a feeling that too many things could go wrong. Then again, as Ron had pointed out:

"Would Lucius Malfoy actually _expect _us to show up for one of his parties? It would be like…like if Draco decided to be your friend after all these years."

Harry had choked violently on a biscuit and Ron had taken that as a sign of approval.

"I just have _one _question for you two." Hermione continued, "Why _exactly _are we going there?"

Ron looked hot and ruffled, "To prove ourselves to the Order, of course!"

"No, no, no, I understand _that _part—what I mean is, once we do get there what are we supposed to be looking for that will magically put us in the Order's good graces?"

At this even Ron looked a little nervous.

"Well, we have an idea—,"

"_Just _an idea?"

"Here's the thing," Harry cut in, backing up his blundering friend, "Remember back in second year, when we took the Polyjuice Potion—or, well…"

"Just keep going!" Hermione replied frostily. Obviously she didn't want to remember her brief period as Hermione the Amazing Cat-Girl.

"When we went down and talked to Malfoy he told us that under the drawing room floor is where his father keeps banned Dark Arts objects."

Ron, looking more confident now added, "Think about how much more he must have now that You-Know-Who is back!"

"Well, maybe Voldemort—," (Ron shuddered) "told Lucius to get rid of them…that _would _be the smart thing to do." Hermione reasoned.

"Yeah, well, even if they _aren't _there anymore we need to find out. We could at least tell the Order not to waste any more time with Lucius, and the Ron's dad wouldn't have to keep on raiding the Manor anymore."

Hermione sighed. Obviously she still wasn't convinced.

"How are we going to get to under the dining room floor—keep in mind that it is a New Years Party and usually parties take place in the dining room, with much dancing and eating you know."

Ron looked affronted, "Hermione, I _am _Fred and George's younger brother. Give me some credit—I know how to wreck havoc when needed. Plus, no doubt they have a ballroom."

"Yeah," Harry piped in, "Dra—I was told by someone that the Malfoy's had a ballroom anyways."

The two waited now knowing that if Hermione wasn't going to go along with the plan then nearly all of the brains of the operation would be lost. Of course, the two still planned on going without her—it was for a greater cause in the end, wasn't it?

Still both boys knew they would feel better about this crazy scheme of theirs if they had Hermione by their side.

"Come on, Hermione," Ron urged gently, "Doesn't sound any more crazy then going after the Sorcerer's Stone—or even going to the Ministry of Magic."

Hermione couldn't argue with that. Compared to some of their other plans in the past this one was positively dull.

Still, Hermione was _not _convinced.

"I promise not to tell anyone what you guys are doing—but I don't want to be part of it."

"What!?"

"Why?!"

"It is too foolish. We will be endangering Harry and the entire Order if we get caught."

Ron gave a strained smile, "That's _if _we get caught."

At this, Hermione drained her tea and walked out of the room.

It was silent for a few moments. Then, Ron turned round in his chair and asked, "Well, what do you make of that, mate?"

"I don't know…" Harry said. "She may come around…"

"Then again, she may not."

Harry nodded.

"Guess we better keep on practicing _glamours _and how to transfigure our dress robes for this Masquerade Ball."

Ron just sighed, "That's easy for you to say—every time I try to transfigure the robe Fred and George got me, instead of turning out deep blue—it turns out the color of the Giant Squid!"

Harry grimaced. "Me too, mate—when I make mine grey, it looks like something a house elf would be wearing."

"We gotta keep practicing then…we've got a few days left."

And with that, Ron and Harry psychologically rolled up their sleeves. They had to transfigure their dress robes into something fit for an enormously decadent ball—and all they had on their hands was Giant-Squid colored robes and house-elf rags.

* * *

Hermione, it would seem, did _not _come around and day by day Harry and Ron grew more desperate for her help.

"Even if you don't go—couldn't you just Transfigure our robes for us?"

"—After all, you are a girl and have an eye for fashion."

Buttering her up might work and Ron began to pursue this new tactic with zeal. "Yeah! And every time we try we end up botching it up."

Harry threw in recklessly, "You can transfigure them anyway you like—well, just as long as they look good, at least."

Still, Hermione was not moved. In fact she spent a lot of her time hanging out with Ginny over the Holidays and avoiding Harry and Ron. The two boys were worried that Hermione might decide to tell Mr. and Ms. Weasley but as the days steadily ticked by they detected no change in their behavior.

At last, New Years Eve was upon them. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were on duty part of the night and then be heading on over to a small party thrown by Mad-Eye. If anywhere was safe, the two of them had reasoned, Mad-Eye's was second to Grimmwauld Place. The rest of the Weasleys had been invited to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes First Year Anniversary Celebration, but Harry and Ron had politely declined.

The twins didn't ask any questions. After all, they were smart enough to know the sweet smell of mischief when it lurked around.

Harry was at once immensely glad that Percy was still not on speaking terms with the family. He had a feeling the snobby prat would have snitched on Harry and Ron before the two could say 'Quidditch.'

Harry and Ron had finished up the last of their homework during the day and celebrated by taking a shot of their flask of Firewhiskey.

"Not too much now, Harry," Ron had giggled sometime around four in the afternoon. "We have to be sober for tonight."

Harry nodded and capped the flask with much regret. Getting up and opening the closet he faced his transfigured dress robes. He had at last managed to over-come the rather putrid color he had transfigured them—and now they were a much more appealing steely grey.

"Still not perfect," he grumbled, "But I guess it is the best I can do."

Ron, still sitting on the bed sighed, "Don't complain. My robes are now baby-blue….maybe I should have stuck with the color that Fred and George gave me. Do you think I should switch it back?"

Harry did not reply. He was beginning to have second guesses about it all. However, Harry figured, if Ron had been stupid enough to follow _him _on all of his foolish ideas, then he at least had to accompany Ron on one of his.

"Let's see how we look with the glamours before we change anything." Harry suggested.

The two left the robes as they were and went downstairs to have an early dinner. They had no idea how long 'getting ready' would take—but they wanted to give themselves at least three hours to be sure.

"Imagine!" Ron exclaimed as he bit into a loaf of bread with gusto, "Girls take this long normally!"

"Yeah well," Harry admitted, "Hermione did look pretty nice at the Yule Ball."

Ron stopped chewing and his eyes looked rather glazed over, "Yeah, she did…"

"Too bad she isn't coming."

"Imagine how she would have looked _this _time." Ron said rather dreamily, a large chunk of bread falling out of his mouth.

Harry let Ron imagine that scenario, while he let himself get glassy eyed with thoughts of Draco in Masquerade attire.

The two were quiet for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts. It came as a surprise when a low, quiet voice behind them asked:

"Are you two still planning on going then?"

Harry and Ron perked up immediately and glanced behind. Hermione was standing in the doorway holding a purring Crookshanks.

The two didn't answer right away, obviously debating if she was going to hold to her promise of 'not snitching.' At last, Ron answered.

"Too late to back out now."

_Really, _Harry thought, _they could easily back out now. _Still, Ron had probably said it because it sounded dramatic. Hermione thought so as well.

"What do you mean? No one knows about it except us three!"

"Not even Ginny?"

"No. Not even Ginny."

Ron turned back to his bread, and Harry continued to rummage around the kitchen as he heated up some leftover soup. "We've got it all planned out, 'Mione;" Harry said, "Might as well go through with it."

Hermione pursed her lips in a very typical way.

"Anyways—we're loads better at magic now, plus we can legally use it—so there won't be much of a problem getting out. I've got some Floo Power just in case too."

Still, Hermione said nothing.

Harry spoke up, "And, we've perfected how to do glamours, we've got a bunch of Fred and George's Products—like instant darkness and stuff, so we'll be fine."

"Yeah, even our dress robes look pretty good." Ron lied.

Hermione sank into a chair, Crookshanks spilling over and onto the floor. She sat staring at the loaf of bread Ron had stopped devouring.

Harry continued to heat the soup wondering what was going on in Hermione's head right now. He had a feeling that if they did not persuade her just right she would go straight to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

"I'm coming then." Hermione spoke at once looking at Ron.

"What?" Ron yelped.

"Really?" Harry asked—suddenly feeling like there was no way they could fail if Hermione was with them.

"I mean," Hermione began, flushing a wonderful shade of pink, "I'll be worried sick if I don't go with you. Plus…"

She faltered.

"We've been on every other adventure together…and there is no way I would let you two leave me out of it."

Ron whooped. Harry just grinned. Hermione grinned, albeit somewhat reluctantly, back.

"Thanks, Hermione."

"Seriously, Hermione, we would have been lost without you!" Ron beamed, and suddenly swooped down and enveloped her in a hug.

Suddenly, the soup needed a lot of attention and Harry turned away—flushing. When Harry looked back a moment later Ron looked distinctly cheerful and Hermione uncharacteristically bright red.

"Well then, if you are coming with us Hermione—you better help us with our dress robes—."

"Because they look terrible."

Hermione just sighed, though she had a good-humored smile on her lips, somehow _not _surprised.

* * *

Hermione had transfigured the cloaks into something presentable far more quickly that it had taken Ron or Hermione. It had taken her a few tries on Harry's to make sure the grey was the exact color of _stormy _grey that she wanted and that the cloak on Ron's matador robes was sufficiently long for his height.

The two had dressed themselves immediately finding that the robes fit them perfectly. Harry's cloak was somewhat militaristic looking with a wash of silver buttons sweeping up the left side of his chest and his coat tales dangling practically to the floor.

Ron's outfit was composed of well-fitted pants and jacket in the traditional Spanish style with a grand cape flourishing off one shoulder. Unlike the sweaters he received year after year from his mum, his robes were _not_ maroon, but a fine, princely shade of deep blue.

Hermione's outfit consisted of a floor length dress in varying shades of deep green and blue, reminiscent of the color of a peacock. The dress's collar, although it did not scoop, deep fell hugged the shoulders seductively.

Once their 'costumes' were completed, next came the glamours.

Harry and Ron had perfected what they wished to accomplish earlier that week. Harry's eyes were turned a deep violet so that they looked almost black, his hair turned a deep chestnut and slightly more manageable. With no glasses and scar as well Harry looked practically unrecognizable.

Ron for his part glamoured away his freckles and changed his normally bright red hair to a deep auburn. He also added a few inches to his hair so that it hung around his face in a much more suave and sophisticated manner. After much debate he had changed his normally brown eyes into a vibrant green, though nowhere near the normal shade of Harry's.

Hermione, having no time to _properly _pluck her eyebrows, glamoured them with a flick of the wrist. Her hair color deepened as well so it matched the color of Ron's somewhat—and with it swirled high above her head it made her look as regal and noble as ever. Her eyes, also brown, she changed to a light blue—a decision which altered the look of her face entirely.

To put it simply, the trio were quite unrecognizable.

The three planned to apparate from the house a few moments to eleven and with the rest of the family gone at the various New Years events the entire process of actually _getting _to the Malfoy Mansion a lot easier than they had imagined. Even Hermione seemed impressed by their 'plan' as of yet.

"Well," Ron admitted while he laced up his shoe, "Fred and George understand, don't they? After all, I let them be the many times the two did not attend family functions. Granted, whenever we returned part of the house was missing…"

At Ten Fifty-Two there were three small _pops _that echoed through the quiet walls of Grimmwauld Place, and then silence.

Seconds later, near Wiltshire, three figures appeared in the middle of a lonely looking field.

"Oh Ron, are you sure we got this right? We are in the middle of a field!" Hermione exclaimed, raising her skirts incase the ground was muddy.

Ron just looked confused scanning the scene. The field was on the middle of a hill with not even any twinkling house lights nearby.

Harry, suspecting the worst, walked a few meters up the incline. The other two just stood, remaining dejected on the spot.

At last, a good ten yards away or so Harry signaled his friends—it would seem they weren't mistaken at all. In fact, the Malfoy Manor lay right below them in a crook of a hill.

Standing there from high above, the twinkling lights gloated of elegance and snobbery already. The three allowed themselves a brief moment of silence, as though thinking quite carefully if they wanted to attempt this plan of theirs.

At last, Ron whispered, "You ready?"

Harry nodded and he supposed Hermione did the same for a few moments later they were descending down the hill onto the front pathway of the pristinely preened lawn with a sculpted hedge.

* * *

Draco was having a rotten time. Then again, he _always _had a rotten time at these insipid parties of theirs. Being home wasn't so bad, just as long as his father wasn't around. He could keep to himself in his room and ignore the fact that his father was a Death Eater and soon expected his perfect son to become one as well. Yes, being home was alright just as long as he was in his room.

But he was not there. In fact, he was no where near his room. He was actually standing beside the punch bowl, wishing it had been spiked more than it already was.

Maybe he would enjoy himself more if he got sloshed. Now that _was _an idea.

Dipping the ladle in Draco scooped out another cup and poured it in his crystal glass. His back was turned to the swirl of people and mixture of voices behind him. Had he been facing forward he would have seen three young people mysteriously walking in from out on the balcony.

Yet no one else noticed their presence, so why should he?

Instead he took another scoop of the punch, wishing he was back at Hogwarts playing his role of dance instructor.

That cheered him for a moment as he drained his glass. He only had a few more days, after all.

* * *

Standing next to the all goblin orchestra, the three of them tried not to look anxious. They tried to look as they were enjoying themselves—as though they came to these types of parties often. Hermione had been instructed to break out into laughing at points, so that anyone watching them would not get suspicious. Harry and Ron held martini glasses in their hands, not sipping them but talking intently as their eyes whirled about the room. They took in the overly large chandelier, the various entrances and exits out of the ballroom and the quickest escape routes.

"Alright," Ron spoke at last after he had drained his martini, "I think just as Lucius Malfoy doesn't notice us—we're fine."

Harry agreed. "Yeah, the rest of the Death Eaters wouldn't even suspect someone would infiltrate this party."

"That does make sense." Hermione piped in, eying the senior Malfoy across the room who was dancing a tango with his wife. "It's his house and I'm sure he can't even trust Death Eaters completely, afraid that someone will steal something."

"Right."

"So what's the plan then, Ro—Roland?" Harry corrected, remembering to use their decided phsydunymes.

"The plan is," Ron said, turning a little pink, "You're our lookout. Of all people, Malfoy wouldn't expect _you _to break in—you have too much to loose after all."

"Thanks, Roland."

"So you keep an eye on him and Draco and alert us with the old D.A. coins if something's up."

Harry nodded, brushing off a piece of lint off his robes as he attempted to casually look at Draco who was standing over by the punch bowl, his back turned.

"If anything _does _go wrong, let's meet back here." Hermione, now moonlighting as Henrietta, suggested.

"Sounds good."

"If all goes according to plan we should be out of here by midnight," Ron said as he tucked his arm around Hermione's waist, "We'll see you soon, _James. _And keep us posted."

Harry watched as Ron and Hermione walked casually arm and arm (each of them rather pink) across the room. The two stopped at the buffet table, and Harry noticed Hermione had to stop Ron from piling his plate too high with snacks. Ron looked back at Harry and gave him a fleeting grin.

That was the last Harry saw of the two. Now he was on his own, and damn he needed another drink.

* * *

It was a particularly long song, Draco noted as he sipped his now proffered punch. Crabbe and Goyle were still out on the dance floor botching it up per usual. Meanwhile, Draco stood against the wall, a vision of black velvet.

If anything, Draco supposed dully, these parties were nice if not for the costumes. He always enjoyed custom ordering them year after year. Last year his ensemble had been all white, but this year, given the more grim nature of affairs in the Wizarding world and his own darker nature he thought subtle, sensual black seemed far more appropriate.

His overcoat was a long sleeved with upturned cuffs which sported just a hint of black lace beneath. The collar was high and framed his face with a smattering off-black lace about the throat which glinted sparsely with a light dusting of fairy dust. As Pansy had said—he looked _ravishing_.

And, no doubt he did.

He looked like a bored demigod stuck in 18th century French aristocratic clothing to be precise.

But the joy of the costume had soon worn off, followed quickly by the disappointed of lack of available dancers. So, instead, Draco just stood like a budding wallflower, rather tight-lipped, his grey eyes flitting across the room.

* * *

By the time Harry had reached the table, Draco looked positively bored.

Harry, for his own part, could literally not keep his eyes off Draco. He had seen Draco in formal attire before—the Yule Ball, those rare occasions in Diagon Alley and the like, but never had he seen Draco wearing something that fitted him so well and caught his character so perfectly.

Draco, Harry thought rather annoyed as he munched on a piece of pineapple, had always had a sense of fashion about him, a gift Harry had never quite received. Now, it was true that Harry had improved his appearances over the years, wearing more form fitting, if not somewhat conservative clothing than before.

But Draco wore _lace, _and he looked amazing in it.

The song stopped and suddenly Harry came to, realizing that instead of sampling the delicacies he was supposed to be "keeping guard." He quickly scanned the room for Lucius Malfoy and a few other key figures he knew to be Death Eaters. Everything seemed normal. Lucius was nibbling his wife's neck in a corner, and the senior Goyle was looking as though he had one sherry too many.

Harry was about to turn back to the appetizers, the cheeses looking particularly enticing when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

Turning around, his pulse quickening (praying that someone hadn't recognized him) he was mildly surprised and disgusted to find Pansy Parkinson looking at him with a gleam in her eye.

"Would you fancy a dance?" she asked casually, though her voice betrayed her. Obviously she wanted to dance very much with him.

Harry didn't realize how well he wore the transfigured robes. Also, the absence of his usual glasses helped as well.

"Dance? Uh-erm…" Harry began, glancing at Draco who was watching the scene out of the corner of his eye, "I mean, I…"

Pansy interrupted, "Don't say you don't know how. I'm sure you must if you come to these types of affairs often."

"Well, I…"

"And you obviously do because you seem to fit in so well." She continued terribly, "I simply adore your dress robes…"

"Thanks, but…"

The music was starting up again—a slow waltz. At least, Harry supposed darkly, it wasn't a tango or something else romantic. He wanted to stay as physically far away from her as possible.

Before he knew it, he felt Pansy's gloved hand yank at his arm pull him out onto the dance floor. For a moment he looked back at Draco, still standing by the refreshments table. Their eyes met for a moment, then—

"What did you say your name was?" Pansy questioned, pulling him close.

"Er-James."

Pansy's smarmy grin widened, "Well, _James, _I'm Pansy."

Harry could think of nothing really to say to that. In fact, the less conversation he could get away with the better. Instead, giving into the situation he adjusted his posture, pulled her towards him, and began to dance. His only hope was that the song was short but sweet.

The dancing proved more difficult than Harry imagined. He was so used to dancing with no one around that often times he had to do some incredibly fancy footwork to avoid running into other people. Pansy didn't seem to be paying attention at all but kept on looking up at him and sighing dreamily—as though that helped anything.

There was an extremely tense moment when Harry was dancing by Mr. Malfoy. For an instant their eyes met. Harry did not know how to react, so instead he twirled Pansy. When their eyes met again, Mr. Malfoy just gave him a bland smile like he had been giving the rest of his guests and went on his merry way about the dance floor.

At last the song ended and Harry thanked her for the "honor of dancing with such a lady." He figured that sounded snobby enough to pass at an event like this. Pansy was quite keen on another dance, and it was looking as though Harry would be forced to dance with her all evening when suddenly he blurted—

"Excuse me, but I have to go to the restroom."

There could be no arguing with that excuse and Pansy walked away looking most disgruntled. For her next partner she danced with Theodore Nott, who stumbled on her feet every time they attempted a turn.

Harry was now forced to depart from the ballroom for a time, though he still had not had an opportunity to speak to Draco in private. Still, if he had excused himself to go to the restroom he ought to go and not make a scene. Perhaps he could go find Ron and Hermione and see how they were doing.

Quietly, he slipped out into the hallway and walked down the long corridors lit with candlelight. Once, he ran into a house elf that was cleaning up some left over plates from the guests. He asked, "Could you direct me to the dining room? I seem to have lost my way…"

The house elf narrowed its eyes warily.

Harry added blandly, "The house is so very big after all…"

Wordlessly the house elf showed him to the door and then took his leave. Wondering if Ron and Hermione were inside the door already he tapped very lightly. He heard a slight scuffle and then silence.

Creaking open the door he peered inside the dimly lit room, now since abadoned after the dinner had ended. The room was clean—obviously the house elves had already been here.

"Hullo? Ro-Roland?"

There was the sound of movement and two figures emerged out from behind the thick curtains.

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione said quietly, "You scared us to death! What are you doing here?"

"Sorry, but I had to leave—Pansy decided she wanted me to be her dance partner for the evening. The only way I could get away was to say I had to go to the bathroom. So, I figured I would check up on you two."

Ron, looking rather flushed answered, "We're fine—we found the spot well enough, but we're not sure we can open it without exploding it or something."

Harry noticed that Hermione was rather flushed as well. What _had _the two been doing behind the curtain?

"Well, what's the plan?" Harry questioned, trying to ignore the fact that people who are going steady have a tendency to snog.

"We're going to wait until midnight—about fifteen minutes away," Hermione answered as she absently smoothed her hair, "I'm sure they will have fireworks, and then we can take the opportunity to see if there is anything in there."

Harry nodded, it sounded simple enough. All things considered, this operation was going too simply.

"Sounds good. Everything is fine in the ballroom, really."

"What about Lucius?"

"He's half-dancing, half-snogging his wife most of the time."

Ron and Hermione blushed, looking down at the floor.

"And Draco?"

"Ah..erm, he's…he's just standing by the snacks, really."

"Just standing?"

"Basically. And looking bored."

Ron snorted. "That sounds about right."

Harry said his goodbyes a few moments later leaving the two of them alone in the room. Something, he figured, they were both glad about. _And why not?_ Harry thought. _After all, everyone needs to have some time alone together._

Now, if he could just get some with Draco…

* * *

Walking back down the dark halls Harry nearly jumped out of his skin when a figure materialized out of thin air.

"You dance very well."

It was Draco. He had been waiting for him in the shadows it seemed. Harry, who had to steady himself against the wall for a moment said as casually as he could manage, "I have a good instructor."

Draco smirked, walking towards Harry in the dim lamplight. The gold and yellow flames danced in Draco's eyes as he walked closer to him. He almost looked like a spirit of the underworld, come to take him to somewhere dark and secret as he glided from the shadows which blended seamlessly in with his robes.

"I'm sure you do."

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it promptly. He found he was tongue tied. Draco was standing there before him, a vision of smirking black velvet, and there was nothing to say. Draco seemed to think other wise, and circling around Harry like how a cat who stalks his pray he whispered darkly in Harry's ear.

"Very brash thing for you to do, really…"

Harry stiffened, "What?"

"The Boy-Who-Lived sneaking into a Death Eater's house…"

Harry turned round so now the two were facing each other, Draco's back was to the wall now. "How did you know it was me?"

"Getting rid of your glasses and scar isn't enough to fool _me_." Draco answered, his eyes drinking in Harry's attire, as though he had now just noticed it for the first time.

"Well, they fooled your dad."

"Yes, well, my dad doesn't know you like I know you."

At that, Draco extended his index finger and ran it down Harry's forehead, the bridge of his nose, and then to his lips. "I know you." Was all he said simply, "But I don't know why you are here."

Harry snorted, finding himself laughing at his own foolishness. Draco, if he had been expecting anything, had not expected this reaction. "Ron's idea, really. He got it into his head that if we dig up dirt on your dad it will get us into the Order."

"So I take it then that Weasley and Granger are here too? Since you three are so inseparable?"

"Yeah…they're in the dining room, waiting till midnight to open the compartment under the floor." Harry explained.

Draco rolled his eyes, "Somehow, I'm not surprised. That sounds like something Weasley would think up."

Offhandedly, Draco wondered how they were going to open the compartment. He had tried many times before, but it seemed impossible…

"Yeah, well…," Harry trailed off, "I wanted to see you, so I guess you could say I encouraged him."

"Couldn't wait till after the holidays?"

"No." Harry replied frankly, "I couldn't."

"I do love your bluntness sometimes, Harry." Draco chuckled as he wrapped his arm rather lazily over his shoulder and continued to lead him down the hall and to the open-air balcony. "And I'm glad I could show you my house. For all the crazy people who have lived in it, myself included, it is beautiful."

Harry did not respond. For all its architectural beauty, Harry had noticed none of it.

The two stepped out onto the veranda. It was cold and the stars overhead were bright. There were no lights around for miles.

"I wanted to talk to you." Harry continued, "I wanted to finish our conversation."

Draco leaned against the railing, his breath forming clouds around his face. "It was cut short, wasn't it?"

Harry joined him, sitting close to him for warmth. His robes were well-lined, but even in the cold of midwinter he could feel the cold creeping in.

"Not that I minded the snogging, or anything…" Harry said, looking at Draco whose eyes were focused on the doorway they had just passed through.

"Not like I minded it much either. Then again, I started it _that _time, so I suppose it must have been a good idea."

Harry did not respond. It was so odd, seeing Draco outside of school and Diagon Alley. He was in the home where Draco had grown up for all the good and evil. It was as though this place softened him, somewhat. As though he was blurred around the edges.

"What are you thinking?" Draco asked, eyes still focused ahead. Yet Harry felt the warmth of Draco's hand enveloping his—a sign that he was listening.

"I'm thinking about how odd it is, seeing you here, actually." Harry remarked conversationally, "I'm thinking how odd all of this is."

"What? You and me?"

"Yes."

"Why is it odd? They say opposites attract, after all. And if we are anything, we are opposites."

Harry laughed, pulling his hand away and standing up so that he could properly look at Draco.

"If you would tell me two years ago that I would have willingly snogged you, I would have thought you had been hit by a bludger one too many times."

Draco did not laugh. He said, "What if I told you that two years ago I liked you even then?"

There was a heavy silence.

"Have you liked me that long?"

"More or less." Draco shrugged nonchalantly, "But I never thought anything like _this _would happen. It was more just a sort of a dark fantasy."

"But still. You fantasized about me?" Harry asked, looking down into his face. He couldn't help grinning. Somehow everything was so surreal here.

Draco avoided his eyes now, his face stony. "You were the first one to reject my friendship—the first person in my life to show me honesty. The way I acted, you made it clear you honestly did not want anything to do with me."

There was a great roar from inside the party. It sounded like there was some drunken party game carrying on.

"You didn't know who _I _was. You didn't know who my father was. You didn't care about pleasing an old Wizarding family, or making money…You didn't know much, actually. Still don't, really."

"_Ten…!"_

Harry snorted, "That may be true."

The two were silent.

"_Eight…!"_

"So, I guess as far as you wanting to talk goes—and since The-Boy-Who-Lived wants a solid answer, and since you came all the way out here…possibly to be killed by my father if he discovers who you are—no scar and all…"

"_Five…!"_

Harry turned his face towards Draco. The pupils in his eyes were dilated: no grey, only black.

"I want to be with you. Until I can't stand it."

"_Happy New Year!"_

The sky lit with gold and green and blue and silver. The stars were obstructed by their brilliance. The goblin band began to play in full earnest. The sky's brilliant colors did not fade and the echoing boom filled the silence of countryside.

Harry kissed Draco then. Leaped on him more like, and the two feel against a nearby column. It was a passionate kiss, like the few others they had shared before. Draco had been too slow and once again he felt the comfortable weight of Harry's warm body pressed against him: Harry had gotten the upper hand again. Their kiss was filled with emotion and tasted slightly of gunpowder. Yet it was a promise, more than a kiss. A promise of honesty.

The kiss deepened, darker than the black sky that lay beyond the fireworks.

Suddenly, Draco pulled away, holding Harry's head in his hand.

"Wait—how did you guys know about the compartment in the dining room floor?"

Harry laughed at that and smirked. "In second year, Ron and I disguised ourselves as Crabbe and Goyle with a Polyjuice Potion."

Draco blinked, as though suddenly remembering something, "And you two left because you had a 'stomach ache'?"

Harry nodded.

A sly smile crept across Draco's face and he pulled Harry towards him. He murmured, "I always knew you were a Slytherin at heart..."

And with that Draco's lips found Harry's in the quasi-darkness.

The kiss deepened, each heedless of their surroundings, falling deeper and deeper into the wet, murky blackness.

It was then that a noise pierced through the din—a scream cut short. Harry broke away, pushing himself up and listened. There were hurried steps in the hall and stumbling forward he found two approaching shapes. Even in the candlelight he could tell immediately who it was.

"Herm—," Harry began, cutting himself off. He waved at them, directing them to come out to the veranda.

They arrived a few moments later, breathless and disheveled—and this time not from snogging.

"What happened?" Harry asked, aware that Ron and Hermione were looking at Draco wide-eyed. There was no time for that now, obviously. No time for explanations.

"One of the house-elves saw us opening the compartment in the dining room!" Hermione whispered, looking over her shoulder anxiously, "Harry, we need to leave. Now!"

Harry nodded. It seemed that their time had been cut short.

Before Harry could say anything, Draco stood up suddenly and said, "You guys can apparate, right?"

Ron and Hermione nodded.

"Just jump off the veranda then—"

Footsteps began to echo throughout the house, followed by loud angry shouts.

"The drops only about five feet or so—get under it and apparate."

There was no time for arguments. Ron and Hermione had to trust whatever Draco said.

"Weasley—you go first and catch Granger, then Potter."

Ron opened his mouth to argue.

"Listen," Harry said, pushing the two towards the railing, "I'll be fine. I'll be down right after you two—,"

Ron looked as though he thought otherwise but began to clamor over the side.

A few seconds later there was a dull thud, then—, "Alright, Hermione!"

Hermione followed next, holding her skirts up around her knees as she climbed over.

Before dropping into Ron's arms she gave Harry an appropriate look. Then, there was only blackness.

It was Harry's turn next and he followed suite, making his way over the railing. Draco grabbed him at once and pulled him close. The kiss seemed to say, _I wish I could go with you…_

A second later it was over, and Harry climbed over the side of the railing.

Turning back to glance at Draco, who had already begun to sink into the shadows he smiled bitterly.

"See you at school then," Harry said.

Draco nodded, "At school…"

And then he was gone. Draco stood alone on the veranda. A moment later there were three loud pops.

Harry was gone, and Draco was alone.

The next day, the war broke out.

* * *

A/N: A nice ending, we think. Just a note to let you know it's not over yet. Just a couple more chapters to go. Thanks for hanging in there. 


	9. chapter 9

Chapter 9

* * *

The war lasted five years.

It was more brutal than anyone had expected. In the end countless lives were lost, including half of the Order of the Phoenix.

Hogwarts had been closed down as a school, but it remained a stronghold for the fight against Voldemort. Families poured into its ancient walls, protected by numerous spells and charms; it became a second Hogsmeade in a way. All were welcomed of course, as Dumbledore insisted.

Some families chose not to come to Hogwarts, but fought their own private battle at their doorsteps. The senior Mrs. Longbottom insisted to stay in her family home, and that was where she was found dead some time in the second year of the war.

This had come as somewhat of a surprise as the Longbottoms had been Purebloods, but, Bellatrix had decided to finish off the old lady and was known to be on a hunt for Neville—who had gone into hiding soon after.

The days following New Years had been panic. It was still undecided whether Hogwarts should continue or no, but a week later, when half of Hogsmeade burnt down, even Dumbledore had to admit that the situation had become too risky for students.

The renovation began, and soon the dormitories were used as make-shift sheltering for those who feared for their lives. Seamus and his family had arrived not a week later, his mum blubbering something awful most of the night. Seamus, given the events during fifth year, looked on embarrassed.

But one good thing was gained from this all out attack: the unity it created in the Wizarding community. People stood together. Often times one would read about the exploits in the Daily Prophet—families fighting off the Death Eaters together at their doorstep. Sometimes these families won, other times they tragically lost.

As Dumbledore liked to say, they had love on their side and that was a weapon Voldemort could never have.

That New Years, Harry, Hermione, and Ron had returned to Grimmauld Place breathless and shaken up. It was revealed to Harry later that the two had managed to open up the compartment beneath the floorboards, and found among various dark objects (which they had not touched)—a list of names and receipts. Many on the list were already known Death Eaters. Yet some names came as a great shock.

At first, the three had been reluctant to reveal where they had found this prized piece of paper. After all, they had a feeling and rightly so that their parents and elders would not react well to the fact that they had snuck into Lucius Malfoy's mansion.

Eventually, some years later—after the three had been accepted into the Order, they revealed the source. By then the tempers had cooled, and at least a third of those listed were in jail. It was a valuable piece of evidence, and as everyone admitted now that the deed was far in the past, worth the risk.

With the three in the Order, their time was soon swallowed up and eventually they were separated. Harry and Ron were asked to stay at Grimmauld Place working, while Hermione, and later Ginny, were stationed within the defenses at Hogwarts.

It was cruel to break apart the trio of friends who had been together since first year—but all admitted that they were an easy target, their bonds of friendship ran too deep and this made them vulnerable.

With the Floo Network watched and the danger of traveling using other methods, the three rarely saw each other. However, Ron and Hermione found enough time during the course of those five years to become engaged. Their wedding was scheduled the spring after the war was over—whether that would be five, ten, or fifteen years away.

Hermione often said that there was no point to stop living life during those dark times, because life—no matter how dark, was all what you made of it.

Ron agreed, but also pointed out, "If it took us seven years to get together—I'm sure we can wait a bit to get married."

The war was hard work, requiring all young and able-bodied people to be trained in a variety of spells, charms, curses, and hexes. Harry found those five years more beneficial then the seven he had spent in his Defense Against the Dark Arts classes.

Unlike before, everything meant business. Harry and Ron were forced to practice with trained Aurors for at least two hours every day before busying themselves with paperwork, and then conditioning. Now that War had been declared, and more and more people were loosing their lives, the Order decided that all young persons had to be in good physical health. That meant that for those stationed at Grimmauld place, where pacing the halls did not count as exercise, they had to devote some hours of the day to physical exercise.

And so it often happened that days went by without a spare moment. It was only when Harry received letters from Hermione or some of his other friends that he allowed his mind to calm. It was then that he remembered Draco.

The two had not been in contact much. Much meaning none at all. At first, Draco was stationed at Hogwarts and often times he was overseas working at Beauxbatons (he was fluent in French). Sometimes Hermione would mention him in her letters, and every time he saw the name his stomach would give a funny sort of guilty lurch. Later, when Draco was stationed overseas, he would sometimes hear Hagrid mention him briefly in a letter he had received from Olympe.

"Gettin' along right good, o'er there." Hagrid mumbled off-handedly on his rare visits to Grimmauld. Even Hagrid didn't mind the son of a Death Eater that much. Draco had proven himself in quite a few duels and his talent for resourcefulness and cunning. Once, Draco had successfully predicted where an attack on a Muggle community would be. Another time, he had been captured, but managed to escape—bringing back a half-alive Marcus Belby.

Harry wrote him letters every week. Letters that he never sent, of course. They were all neatly arranged in a box in his desk drawer, each week a new thin layer of dust piling up. He didn't know why he never sent them; perhaps it was because now that the War had started he had to put so much energy into just maintaining his survival—waiting for the day when he and Voldemort would face one another, and so had no time as it was.

Yet really, Harry knew that was only an excuse. The truth was simple: he was scared. It was all very well and good those years ago at Hogwarts, the flirtation in the halls; but Harry didn't know if their relationship could have lasted outside of those bounds. It had all started out so right…

Then, after the war, when Draco did not write him as well, Harry took that as a sign—a sign that whatever had been there was over. Or, at the very least, put on hold. The thought of Draco sending a letter filled his heart with embarrassment. As far as he knew, Draco could be engaged to some nice girl, perhaps Fleur's younger sister, having realized that his affair with the Boy-Who-Lived had been one of the pleasures of youthful experimentation.

Gradually, Harry pushed Draco from his mind and focused all his efforts into ending the war as soon as possible. He trained as hard as he could, volunteered for as many missions as Dumbledore would allow, and continued his studies. By the fourth year in the war, when Harry was twenty-one, he became an Auror. Ron, followed six months later.

At last, on a bone-chilling day in February, both sides found themselves at a stale-mate. The Death Eater population had been significantly decreased and word had it that there were no available recruits. Inferi could only be of so much use in the end anyways. And, although the Order had many people, it never seemed to be enough.

The final battle was coming.

They had lined up in a field in the West Country and fought. More than half of those remaining on the Order were severely injured or killed. Neville suffered a brutal injury to the leg, which gave him a mild limp the rest of his life. Ginny was put into St. Mungo's for six month following, and even then had barely survived.

It was then, that cold day in February, that Harry found himself alone in a clearing in the woods, the ground covered with snow, and Voldemort standing directly opposite. The final battle had arrived at last.

Both nearly died trying to kill each other.

Yet in the end Harry survived, though just barely. He spent nearly nine months in St. Mungo's recovering.

Draco never visited him once.

Yet, as Harry had been blind at the time, he was not able to read the article in the Daily Prophet reporting that Draco had been wounded in battle as well. Harry also did not know that they lay only four doors down apart, though Draco unable to move.

* * *

Lucius had been outraged by the disappearance of some of his most prized documents. Learning only later how important they truly had been to the opposition, Draco could understand his father's anger in retrospect.

The party was called off and the guests went home. Draco, having been found on the veranda still gazing at the remaining Fireworks had been questioned. He told his family the truth: he had been inside the ballroom and out on the veranda and had gone nowhere near the dining room.

The next morning, his father had called him into his study after breakfast. He then explained that war had been officially declared and that Draco was to pack what belongings he wished, for they would be going into hiding before midday.

Draco panicked.

He packed his items with hurried care, making sure to bring only what he truly would desire or miss. He knew that this would be the last time he would see his familial home for some time. At least until his parents were dead or locked in jail.

Draco wrote no expository letter, explaining how he had betrayed his family and was going to work to the Order. Nor did he mention how Harry Potter and his friends had snuck in the night before. Instead, he wrote a quick note addressed to his mum and hid it in her jewelry box—the one place he knew his father wouldn't go looking.

On it was written:

_Get as far away as you can from father._

His mother may have been a Black, and a proud old Pureblood, but she was not a murderer.

Taking his possessions in hand he had then traveled by Floo to the Hog's Head. There he contacted Dumbledore and was immediately permitted onto the grounds.

By the time his mother had knocked on his door at eleven thirty, he was gone forever.

That night she found the note.

Draco did not leave Hogwarts or its grounds for two years.

He was assigned to various tasks: healing, casting new spells and enchantments on the castle, training anyone in defensive spells, and later fighting along side the Order. It was there in battle that Draco proved the most adept, having had years of lessons of dueling.

When he first arrived at Hogwarts, his first inclination was to contact Harry as soon as possible—letting him know where he was and that he was safe. As it turned out, Dumbledore had already relayed that information for him. There seemed nothing left to write, save:

"You looked amazing in your costume on New Years."

But given the dark state of things Draco did not find that appropriate.

Every day Draco thought of writing Harry, wishing to discuss the various events or lack of events that went on at Hogwarts, his training, what spells he had learned etc. Yet every day a great sense of embarrassment and guilt stopped him.

Even though he worked for the Order, Draco's last name was Malfoy—and with every new and terrible exploit he read about his father performing, he felt more deeply shameful. Malfoys had pride, yes. But they also had shame.

It was often the pride that played dominant in their behavior. But at times like these guilt and shame had a way of taking over.

For that reason, Draco volunteered to work overseas in France; where he could put his French to good use and escape—to some extent—the ridicule he constantly felt. He wanted to get away, as far away as he could, where he could still be useful to the Order.

France, it seemed, was it.

And so he went, trained, battled, and anything else that was asked of him. And still, he did not write Harry. And as Harry did not write him, he felt it best to leave that as the status-quo.

Years passed.

And then, there was the battle—the final battle. Voldemort died. Harry almost died.

Draco knew then that whatever shame and guilt mixed with pride had to be swallowed. He had to see Harry.

He had been so close after having apparated to London. In fact, he had been walking up the road to the visitor's entrance on a lovely sunny day. He had to wipe the smile that he had sprouted at the thought of seeing Harry after so long.

What could go wrong when the weather was so lovely? Then, as if to spite him, a figure moved amongst the shadows.

Before he had time to react, Draco crumpled to the ground and everything faded to black.

The next thing he would see would be the walls of St. Mungo's—unable to move and unable to speak.

* * *

It was now a year since the war had ended and relative peace had returned to the Wizarding Community. Those rebels that had taken to hiding were slowly but steadily being captured.

The ministry had at last thought it time to give the official "okay."

After five years and 269 days—the war was officially announced as over. What better way to celebrate it than to throw a colossal party?

The party took months to prepare, which was fine by the two particular invalids who were still in rehab.

But then, one chilly day in early March—both received an owl post.

A party was to be thrown in a fortnight at the Ministry of Magic and they were formally invited (meaning they had to go, they were war heroes). Formal wear was required.


	10. chapter 10

Author's Note: Well, this is the end. In all honesty I never thought I would finish this story. Amazing what the end of a series can do to you and what inspiration it can, well, inspire! I seriously also wouldn't have gotten it done this summer without my friend. She knows who she is, but likes to go unnamed. But she lit the fire of Harry Potter beneath me until it burned! Also, as this is the last chapter I would love if you could review to tell me what you thought of the story, in the end. This may not be the end of Harry Potter fanfiction for me, but come this Friday the world as we know it shall change. Let us meet this finale bravely and with heart!

* * *

Chapter 10

* * *

The party was being held in the newly renovated Ministry of Magic. Given the erratic nature of the war, the building had sadly fallen into disrepair--paint peeling, windows (despite its underground location) needing replacing, as well as hoards of other problems. Therefore, with the onset of peace, the Wizarding community at last had time to devote to revitalizing the Ministry--as well as Diagon Alley, which had sadly seen better days. 

For the evening, the main atrium was glittering and sparkling--not just from the fairies floating about, but also from the fresh paint, glass, and flooring. Although true spring was still a month away, the Ministry had chosen to decorate with heaps of flowers, from small snow drops, to lilies and tulips.

"A rebirth, after all," Mr. Weasley had pointed out as their procession arrived, "No better time to celebrate like the present."

Everyone beamed at this thought, even Harry--who normally would have found this floral display a little over the top. Tugging at the black turtle neck under his blazer, he looked around the room a little anxiously, as though he was looking for someone.

Casually, Hermione whispered in Ron's ear, "Promise me our wedding won't look like this."

Ron burst out laughing, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.

Harry grinned as well. He hoped that their wedding--which was a little over a month away, wouldn't look much like this either. Still, the decorating effect was rather nice…invigorating and hospitable, rather than formal and domineering (something Harry usually associated with the Ministry anyways.) He had been here on and off during the war, but it still held memories of his trial during fifth year and the events that followed in the Department of Mysteries.

"How are you feeling?" Ron asked when Hermione had gone off to say hello to some friends.

"I'm alright," Harry grinned warily, "And I have been for a month now--,"

"I know, but, you know…" Ron trailed off, unbuttoning his shirt a bit, "You went through a lot."

"That wasn't the tune you were singing when you forced me to play Quidditch with you last week."

"Yeah, well, when _was _the last time we played?"

That was true. When _was _the last time they had played? Sixth year, really…that seemed so long ago.

"Still." Harry continued pressing the point with a small shrug, "I wouldn't have gone to that salsa club last week if I wasn't feeling alright, would I?"

Ron snorted. For some reason he still found the idea of a salsa club rather ridiculous. Harry just ignored him as he privately knew Ron was jealous for his superior dancing abilities. Or at least, that was what he liked to believe.

"You are stubborn though, you know."

Harry just snorted. Ron, calling _him _stubborn?

Hermione arrived back then, cutting off further talks of stubbornness and health. Hermione, unlike her fiancé, believed Harry to be fine. After all, she had made friends with many of the Medi-Witches who visited Hogwarts over the years, and was able to hear the "truth" about Harry's condition.

And fully recovered was just that.

"Stop arguing you two."

"How did you know we were arguing?"

"Because you always furrow your eyebrows together." Hermione said with a knowing smile, sipping some punch.

"Do I?"

"Yes, Ron. You do." Harry nodded, fighting back a snicker.

"Rather cute, really." Hermione said, pecking him on the cheek.

Harry, finding his throat was rather dry after having eaten some of the salty snacks they had lying about asked, "Where'd you get the drink, 'Mione?"

"Oh. Over there." She pointed across the room to where the punch bowl was obstructed by a few witches and wizards milling about.

"Want anything, Ron?"

"Just punch, I guess." Ron answered.

Harry left the two and walked across the room. Once he was out of earshot, Hermione asked Ron, "Do you think he knows Draco is coming?"

Ron shrugged, "I guess so. I mean, why wouldn't he? I'm sure he's thought about it. Harry _always _thinks about him."

Hermione said nothing. This was, after all, quite true.

Ron looked grumpy, "Rather annoying really."

Hermione patted him on the shoulder, but asked nonetheless, "You sure you are okay with it, then?"

"What? Him and _Draco_?" The name of his once-rival still stuck on his tongue awkwardly.

She nodded.

"I guess so." He answered, shrugging again, "I mean… if anything I just want them to get together, damn it."

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but Ron cut her off.

"Or, at least see each other again so we can move onto the next phase. Harry's really boring to be around when he is mopey."

This seemed more appropriate, and Hermione just sipped her drink for a bit. Hermione didn't know the half of it--having been posted at Hogwarts much of the time. Being cooped up inside, combating with a sexually frustrated life had left both boys rather tense. At least, Ron supposed, he _had _Hermione--that was to say, they were engaged. Where as Harry locked himself away in his mind, torturing himself with _what ifs. _

"He's not a bad guy, really--," Hermione chided, continuing the subject of Draco.

"I know, it's just--,"

"History. It's in the past, Ron. He's different now."

Memories of all those scuffles and insults in the hall were slowly fading for Ron, but still it was hard to write off someone you had formerly loathed.

"Still…" Ron sulked. He didn't like talking about Harry and Draco's not-so elicit affair. After Hermione and he had pieced it together during the second year of the war, when Ron had found a stack of letters addressed to Malfoy and Hermione had "talked" to Draco about it, the two were anxious for them to meet again.

"At least so we can be friends." Hermione said primly.

Ron just snorted. "He's okay, I guess…if you like rich, upper-class Purebloods."

"Well, I'm sure he feels the same about you." Hermione retorted, rolling her eyes.

Music had begun to tinkle from somewhere and people bustled around the couple.

"If only he hadn't gone to France…" Hermione continued, with her "muddled" look on her face she usually only reserved for particularly difficult spells.

"I know!" Ron spat rather annoyed, "When we had finally convinced Harry to come visit you at Hogwarts and everything…"

Ron was sure Draco had known that Harry was to be visiting soon, and that was why he had decided on the offered position so quickly.

"Well, all we can do is wait." Hermione said, smoothing out her dress and hooking her arms with Ron, "Come on, let's dance."

"But what about the punch? He'll be back in a mo'."

"We'll still be here."

Ron would have preferred punch-drinking to dancing, but he decided to keep his mouth shut. The two stepped out onto the floor, and holding each other gently, began to dance.

After a while, Ron decided it wasn't so bad after all.

* * *

It had taken Harry a lot longer to get over to the punch bowl than he had planned. Literally everyone in the Wizarding world seemed to be there, so that meant saying hello and chatting with quite a few of them. It took twenty minutes to cross the span of five meters, and when he finally arrived he thought he had well deserved his punch.

But he wasn't going to go out there again so soon. He didn't want to face the countless strangers who insisted on talking to him--just so _they_ could say they talked to the Boy-Who-Lived-and-Killed-Voldemort. Grabbing his cup, Harry ducked out of sight and into a nearby room that seemed to have been converted into a small café. It was empty and dark now, but the tables and chairs were still out.

Sitting himself at one, Harry sipped at the punch, allowing the cold beverage to trickle down his throat.

"Couldn't stand them either?" a subdue voice asked from behind him.

Harry turned about, realizing for the first time he wasn't alone in the room. Someone else was seated in the shadow where the magiced moonlight did not fall.

If the stranger could have seen Harry properly, he would have seen his smile as he answered, "I suppose not."

The voice did not reply at this for a few moments. Harry heard the tinkle of ice cubes and presumed the person was drinking their own beverage. He had just turned back around when the voice asked again.

"Mind if I join you?"

Harry supposed that he didn't. The person seemed sensitive enough to the fact that large crowds did not agree with him. Then again, being alone didn't either.

"Sure."

The man stood up and walked across the short distance that separated them, each footstep echoing in the empty room. Harry counted about eleven footsteps in total.

The person rounded on him now, taking the seat opposite. As he did so, he murmured, "Lumos."

His face burst into light.

The two looked at each other, both their eyes widening. Yet neither said anything. Instead, Draco pulled out the chair and seated himself gracefully.

"Doesn't surprise me."

Harry relaxed for a moment, letting him listen to Draco's voice. It had grown pleasantly deeper since they last had seen each other. It was still the same in essentials, yet something had changed--it was more mature and inevitably more refined. At length, as though waking himself up, he asked.

"Why's that?"

Draco smirked, his smirk still the same though his face had also grown up in the years they had been apart.

"The famous Harry Potter doesn't like to be around crowds."

Harry shrugged, sipping the punch.

"I never thought you were big on them either."

Draco lifted his glass.

"Cheers to that."

The two were silent a moment longer, each of them stealing glances at the other--seeing how each had changed over the five plus odd years they had been apart. Each had grown taller, although when standing Draco was a good three centimeters higher than Harry. Both had grown out their hair to a more fashionable and not-so-school boy-ish look. They had trimmed up in their own way, although constant physical exercises as training had expedited the progress, to be sure. Yet both also had a slight pinched look, like someone who had just recovered after a serious illness.

At this point, Harry was unaware that Draco had even been injured.

At length, Draco asked, "Hermione and Wea-_Ron _here too?"

"When did you start calling her by her first name?"

Draco rolled his eyes, still smirking, "Have you forgotten we worked in Hogwarts for two years?"

"Oh. Yeah. Right." Harry said, feeling rather dumb, "But still, it doesn't seem very like you, you know…"

"Yes, well, people change…you're not Potter, or scar-face any more, are you?"

"And you're not Malfoy."

Each were grinning at each other. It seemed like old times, these banters.

"Listen." Harry started, rising from his seat a bit and leaning over the table--the wand-light glowing on his features, "Why didn't you write me?"

"Your bluntness hasn't changed." He said, softly. He didn't look amused by it now.

"No." Harry managed.

Draco flushed and looked away from the wand-light, "I can ask you the same question."

Harry sank back into the seat.

"Truthfully," Harry began slowly, as though saying this was quite painful, "I was embarrassed…and unsure."

Draco's eyes narrowed and he looked up meeting Harry's green. "Why?"

"Why?" Harry laughed anxiously at that, "Because we were only seventeen! And I didn't know if what we had was real or not."

Draco opened his mouth, but Harry cut in, continuing: "I mean, it was real to me…but I didn't know about you. You had after all, had so much more experience then me. I didn't know if I was that important--or if I would be important after the war was over. _Plus, _we never went out or anything like that…if I had written those letters it would be like fanning a spark that might not catch…"

Harry paused, sipped his drink, and, "I couldn't meet with you face to face. Not then."

"Yes, everything had hit the fan, so to speak." Draco commented, his eyes downcast.

That bloody war.

"I…I just didn't know…how you felt about it. In the end, that is."

Draco remained silent, looking at Harry across the table.

"I've got a whole box full of letters, if you want to see them." Harry flushed, turning pink, "You never got my letters but I wrote them."

Draco laughed allowed at this.

"Brilliant. Sometimes you are _brilliant, _Harry!"

"What?!" He seethed.

"You tell me this long, dramatic story--making me feel like shit, mind you--and then you tell me you have written me unsent letters!"

"Well, I did."

Draco continued to laugh. "No. I _know _you did. That is something _you _would do."

Harry just looked mildly annoyed and embarrassed.

"What about you then?" he sneered. "What's your excuse?"

Draco's laughing calmed.

"None so honorable. At least you had a moderately decent reason--hell, I don't know if I would have trusted _my _seventeen year old self. I don't despise you for that."

"Then what then? Why didn't you write? It's not like there was a lack of time there. 'Mione's told me how boring it got there, sometimes."

"Yeah, well," Draco shrugged nonchalantly, "It did get boring. A lot. One can only train so much. I'm sure it was worse for her too, as she seems to learn spells instantaneously."

Harry snorted. That _was _true.

"But, in all honesty…" Draco began, somewhat hesitant. His voice had lost its characteristic edge. "I was ashamed."

"Of what?" Harry asked. Then, a horrid thought occurred to him, "Of us?"

"No. Not us. I got over the whole being gay bit a while ago. I also got over the initial embarrassment that I liked my arch-enemy back at the end of fifth year."

"Well, then, what?" Harry pressed, trying to not let the things Draco was saying go to his heart.

"Harry, you don't understand. _You _come from a family who was loved, in general, by most people. Your family was popular and everyone was sad to see them die. But my family? My family? Merlin! The Prophet threw a field day when my dad was thrown in jail! And, granted, they weren't having parades in the street when my mum killed herself--but you have no idea how hard it is, being, well, me."

"But I do--,"

"No. You don't. Even when everyone hated you, thought you were crazy, you were still _The-Boy-Who-Lived. _Not me. I'll always be Draco Malfoy, the son of a Death Eater."

"Dumbledore trusted you."

"Yeah, well he's dead."

He had died at the end of the fourth year of the war, very oddly, of natural causes.

"And I trust you. I still do, despite the fact we haven't talked to each other."

"Well," Draco said, sniffing (it was rather cold in the room) "I'm okay now--now that I have proven I'm not going to go betray any of the Order. But I wasn't okay back than. You see why I had to get away, don't you?"

Harry supposed he could see it. Still, he would have preferred to have received letters from Draco nonetheless.

"I could have helped you, you know…"

Draco smiled softly, "I know. But I wanted to do it on my own."

Harry was sure he did. Slytherin's were never ones to ask for help.

"Well. Now what?" Harry asked. His drink was gone and lay abandoned on the table.

Draco stood up as well, mumbling _Nox _under his breath.

"There's only one thing left to do." He replied, his form highlighted in familiar moonlight.

He looked down at Harry, his features soft--like the night they had been at the New Years party. There was something gentle and hesitant about them.

Harry took this as a good sign.

"Make up for the past five odd years."

Harry laughed at that, but at once was immensely relieved. It was as though someone was shouting, _You're not insane for hoping! You're not insane!_

"You mean…" Harry faltered, still sitting--looking up incredulously at the person standing above him.

"I mean, _Potter, _that if you're interested, so am I."

Interested was certainly an understatement. Harry could have laughed himself silly.

"You mean that?" Harry asked, hoisting himself to his feet--and realizing his was a bit shorter than Draco.

His formal rival looked Harry up and down, and at last their eyes met.

"'Course I do. Malfoy's may be proud…but we also know what we want, and go after it."

Harry leaned forward, the fabric of their clothes just touching. Draco's eyes flitted from Harry's face, down to his lips, back to his eyes, then down to his lips…

Whispering in Draco's ear, "Let's pick up where we left off, then…"

An eyebrow rose. That certainly sounded like an intriguing offer.

"Where was that?"

"That was when you had at last decided to let me lead." Harry said, rather smugly as he leaned in, slowly unbuttoning Draco's grey collared shirt.

Draco seemed rather intrigued, although he really would have to get this idea out of Harry's head--this whole "leading" business seemed absurd, sometimes.

"I've got no objections to that." Draco replied amiably, enjoying the warmth that radiated off of Harry.

"Though…" he continued, "I think we should test our skills. Our dance skills, that is."

Harry tried to hide his annoyance. And Draco called _him _dense? Obviously he had _not _been talking about dancing.

Of course, Draco knew that, but he always liked to poke fun at Potter. It used to be one of his favorite pastimes.

From out in the atrium, the music had changed from a cheesy-slow waltz (which Ron and Hermione had just finished dancing, looking quite the young, love-sick couple) to a more upbeat salsa.

Draco laughed at this, "You were never good at Latin dances."

"Hey, I've improved though!" Harry countered, thinking back to the salsa club last week. He had been _quite _popular with all those ladies.

"I'll be the judge of that." Draco winked as he linked arms with Harry and walked towards the chunk of light spattering on the floor. The next moment the dark quiet of the café faded away and once again they were back amongst the crowd, milling together, chatting, snacking, and in some cases on their way to getting sloshed.

Harry remained silent. They were going to dance. Together. He felt sick in a terribly wonderful way--as though some switch had been flicked on inside of him. He had been dark, those five years. He had been black and white, and now he was moving into Technicolor again.

Harry laughed aloud, a relieved, happy, and sad laugh. He was still laughing when they stepped out onto the dance floor. Magiced flowers literally bloomed beneath their feet.

"Some decorations," Draco murmured in Harry's ear. "Looks like they got advice from Umbridge."

The music continued to blare from the goblin band, which were decked out in cheerful red robes this evening. The music was bright, loud and vibrant just as salsa should be.

"You're going to dance salsa then?" Draco questioned, almost like a taunt the two used to reserve for the Quidditch pitch.

"Yeah, I am," Harry smirked. Draco smirked in turn.

"And," Harry added, "I'm going to lead you like never before."

With that, Harry quickly wrapped his arms around Draco--indicating that he _was _the lead. Draco did not resist, though with his spare hand he tucked a piece of Harry's hair behind his ears. Unlike the times before where Harry could have sworn he saw a trace of affection surface briefly in his eyes, this time it seemed to pool and gather.

Draco's smirk turned into a grin, "You're on then, _Potter."_

The music picked up, a fast-paced blend of drums, trumpet and Latin beats blending together as one into something spicy, exciting, and ultimately seductive. Salsa was different from what the two had previously danced--neither grand like the Viennese, nor dark and seductive like the Tango--it represented a freedom, and sense of carefree the two had lacked.

Instead of focusing intently on the moves, or trying to capture lust the two were simply smiling, and laughing at each other and dancing in whatever way they desired, free form and loose. It was as though they had jumped back in time, as though the war had never happened, as though they had never been enemies.

Needless to say, their superior dancing attracted quite a bit of attention. The dance floor was sparsely populated, but it seemed like it was only them dancing, alone again in the moonlit Room of Requirement.

"My word," Cornelius Fudge choked as he sipped his Firewhiskey, "Is that Harry Potter? When did he learn to dance?"

"And with Draco Malfoy?" an incredulous Romelda Vane asked from behind.

The crowd looked on, rather awestruck as the two twirled faster and faster, weaving in and out of each other, hugging at one moment then the next breaking away. Some people were amused, two boys dancing? Others were shocked--Harry Potter? Then some were disgusted--that damn Draco Malfoy, after all. Finally, though, there were those like Ron and Hermione and a few others who were merely happy to see their best friend smiling so sincerely.

And Harry was not only dancing, but dancing extraordinarily well. With _Draco Malfoy, _no doubt!

"Wow, I guess I shouldn't tease Harry about going to that salsa club." Ron chortled, sipping Hermione's punch.

Turning on her fiancé, she questioned, "What? You teased him? Why? I think it's brilliant!"

Ron just silently rolled his eyes.

"In fact!" She continued airily, "I've signed us up for some Muggle lessons starting next week. I won't have you stepping on my feet at our wedding!"

At that, Ron promptly began to argue--a feat which caused the two of them to miss the very exciting finale which caused the crowd to burst into applause. The two boys, sweaty, but smiling, bowed slightly.

"I guess this is our dancing debut, eh, Harry?" Draco said sarcastically as he lead him quickly off the dance floor and out of the prying eyes and the people who were about to ambush them with compliments and questions. Romelda Vane in particular, who still carried a little flame for Harry. She had completely decided to ignore the rumors of his "questionable sexuality."

But the crowd eventually caught up with them, even though they had retreated as far as they could back into the café--hoping that people would take a hint that they wanted some privacy. They had many compliments ("Such superb form!") and questions ("Are you two dance partners?") and the like.

At last, a half an hour later, the two had managed to shoo off the remaining herd of people--convincing them that there were tasty snacks and beverages they were surely missing out on if they talked to them.

The second they were alone, Draco turned towards Harry.

"At last," he growled, stepping close, "I can do what I've been wanting to do for the last hour."

Harry stepped forward as well. He could have forgone dancing--even though it had been brilliant--all he wanted to do was what Draco was about to do to him.

Kiss him, of course.

The last kiss they had shared had been brief and bitter, framed by the afterglow of the fireworks off in the distance. Now, wrapped in the grey light of the café, the two held each other close, passionately and tenderly. Their lips met, hesitant, almost shy at first. Draco nibbled the edges of the lower lip tentatively--remembering the flavor of Harry. For his part, Harry wrapped his fingers about Draco's face, pulling him closer and deeper into his mouth. They broke away when Draco let out an uncharacteristic moan, murmuring Harry's name.

They looked, studying their faces in the dim light, remembering the series of events that had brought them together.

Suddenly, Draco wrapped his arms quickly through Harry's and said, "Enough of this."

"Wha--?" Harry questioned, slightly confused. He thought they had been getting on quite well.

Draco said nothing, put pushed him forward back toward the atrium. A few moments later, he asked,

"Which will it be? My place or yours?"

Harry paused, staring at Draco. He was now backlit by the brilliant light pouring in, and although his features were somewhat unclear and blurred his eyes glowed like black garnets in the light.

"Mine."

Draco smirked, and continued to lead Harry on, "Well then, let's get going. I've waited for you long enough."

Harry, for his part, couldn't agree more.

The two left, not even bothering to grab their coats or wish their friends good bye.

It was only chance that Ron and Hermione saw the two of them, practically sprinting towards the elevator--Draco once again in the lead, Harry following close behind...

* * *

The End.

* * *


End file.
